


It Happened in Egypt

by bionically



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Canon Divergence - Post-Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Eventual Romance, F/M, Genital Torture, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Kinda, Minor Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Hogwarts, Variations on Ancient Egyptian Religion, no ron bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Wandless in Egypt: Draco's stranded in Egypt, but luckily, there's a Granger in sight. Now, if only he could be prevented from strangling her.Fun times abroad: It was supposed to be a leisurely solo trip down the Nile. Hermione didn't factor in one blond man from her past and all his drama. Then, of course, there's the fact that everyone's after him. Much hilarity ensues. Maybe.





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione wasn't much enjoying her vacation. She only took it because her boss had insisted, hinting that the interns were starting to hate coming to her for simple tasks, and Harry, disloyal being that he was, had agreed. Paxton had hinted that she wasn't about to get overtime if she worked through her vacation for the third year running and that if she insisted, Labor and Resources were going to get on his case. If he had to suspend her, he would, and it was going on her record too.

Hermione had tried to argue, she did. But the fact of the matter was that she was just in the restroom when she overheard a secretary and an intern discussing her in not so complimentary tones. It had completely thrown her for a loop in rebutting her boss.

“Who by Merlin's beard does she think she is?” the intern Hermione mildly recalled as a new Hogwarts graduate had ranted. She didn't remember the girl's name, only that she spent most of her time spelling her nail color different shades and charming the coffee steam into reflecting her appearance. It was amusing the first day only and less so when Hermione needed her to look up a file on a different level.

“Well, she's _Hermione Granger_ ,” said Vicky the secretary with the tone of voice that sounded as though it were accompanied with a shrug.

“Yeah, so? It's been seven years since the war ended. Who cares about Harry Potter’s sidekick? I've heard _he's_ not half so snotty.”

“Yes, she does tend to go off on you when you've made a simple mistake,” said Vicky, and Hermione could glimpse through the crack of the stalls that she was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“Go off on you?! I thought she was going to bite my head off. She's such an ugly and unpleasant woman and she cares about nothing but work and more work. No wonder she's still single!”

 

Hermione tried to not take the comment personally. Now she remembered who the intern was. Penny. Penny the intern. She _had_ rather gone off on her, because the airhead had _not_ gotten the right file from the file room and had in fact, also misfiled the last ten items she had been entrusted with, _and,_ while Hermione was waiting to hear back from her in time to make a meeting with the heads of ministry departments, she had found the girl chatting it up with Ron, the necessary (but wrong) files in her hand. It had all combined to make Hermione see red, and Ron hadn't helped at all by grinning through her tirade.

“I heard she and Ron used to have a thing,” volunteered Vicky in a gossipy tone. Hermione refrained from tapping her foot. Were they going to gossip about that _now_? She'd be stuck in here for ages. And how were they so indiscreet they didn't bother making sure the stalls were empty first? Honestly, the incompetence of some people.

“Ron Weasley, right, the Auror?” giggled Penny. “Merlin, he's a dish. I do like it when they're so tall and burly and friendly. I can't believe what he ever saw in her.”

“Well, they were classmates, you know. Proximity and all that,” Vicky said practically.

“That must've been it. Seriously, the woman is a giant cow. And her hair! Have you ever seen so much hair?”

Now she was just being catty. Hermione fully intended to storm out of her stall and inform the intern that, giant cow or not, she was the one to have broken it off with the dish, and yeah, she had dated another international star too--Viktor Krum, heard of him?

But someone else walked in and the two girls left without another word, discretion coming a tad too late.

Brilliant witch or not (Ron's own words), the social aspect of working at the Ministry really bogged Hermione down. It always seemed that her female coworkers weren't interested in reform, lawmaking, or even work itself. What were they even doing here? She had done plenty of work throughout the past seven years to warrant several moves up the ladder and yet she was still right where she started, drafting and researching bills for the higher-ups when she knew for a fact Harry was no longer junior Auror. Yes, she had rejected any special treatment, but it shouldn’t be this difficult to climb up in the real world.

 

So when Paxton had said, “It's called having fun and being a well-rounded person, Hermione. Surely you know what it's about?”, Hermione had lifted her chin and said that she had vacation plans already and that she planned to rough it in Egypt, sans magic, a real hardcore “fun” trip.

 

She had been sarcastic, because she'd had enough of roughing it on camping trips to last her a lifetime. But Paxton grinned widely back and said how there better be pictures and not with just her in them.

In retrospect, Hermione suspected he had been calling her bluff.

Nevertheless, she had rushed home in a fit of temper and booked a trip to Egypt to see some of the sights. So what if nobody had been able to jet off with her at the last minute? She could do this all by herself and have a perfectly good time too.

Except she really wasn't.

She had brought work with her. Now she sat in the cafe downstairs from her far-from-upscale hostel, frowning in the dim light at her notes. Her mind was running two tracks: one going through tomorrow's itinerary, which involved a seven day felucca boat ride down the Nile. It really would be roughing it, because there were no bathroom facilities on board and if the wind was poor, they would be delayed, although of course the agent said that seldom proved to be the case (yeah right).

Hermione frowned and wondered why the hell she was doing such a dumb thing when there were cruises available. If only she hadn't been provoked by those two girls into doing something so rash. She was plenty of fun. She _had_ plenty of fun. Just... admittedly, not recently.

The other side of her brain ran simultaneously through her notes toward drafting the latest bill on Muggle relations. She wished she could have done this in the Hogwarts library, or really, any library at all, but here she was, sitting in a dim cafe across a pub that was starting to grow a bit too raucous.

Wearing a scowl that could have overturned a ship, Hermione looked up to see a man stumble outside with two companions. At first glance, they seemed to be friends, but for the startling difference in appearance. The one man was blond, tall, and Caucasian. His two companions were Egyptian and much younger and shorter. They also seemed far less drunk than he was, and as she watched, one lifted the blond man's wallet from his back pocket while the other distracted him. Then, with a wink across the street at her disbelieving expression, they ran down the street before Hermione could gather her wits to jump up to shout for the authorities or stop them with her wand, which got stuck in her pocket as she tried to pull it out. That was what happened when you got too used to having a desk job.

 

Hermione was torn. On the one hand, she was no stranger to Egypt. There was the inevitable baksheesh to give at every corner, but generally speaking, the bigger cities like Alexandria were excepted from this practice of giving alms. Locals regularly charged double the price to every foreigner, especially if they seemed ripe for the picking. From what it looked like, the blond man--who had sat down on the curb and dropped his face on his knees in a drunken stupor--had it coming.

On the other hand, that was really pure sexism. She would have beat anyone over the head if she saw a girl being roofied and mugged.

After about five minutes, in which she kept a wary eye on the man, paid for her coffee, and packed up her belongings (nothing of great import), she looked left and right and made her way across the dim street.

She stood next to the man (she could smell the fumes) for a bit and thought about how conspicuous his white blond hair was. It really was just asking for it. Not unlike someone else she had known before.

“Hey, are you all right there?” she asked and he groaned. The sense of familiarity grew.

She crouched down at a distance next to him, feeling for her wand in her pocket. “Hey,” she tried again, and he lifted his head from his knees.

Hermione rocked back on her heels. “Oh my god. Draco Malfoy. What the hell are you doing here?”

He opened his eyes and gave her a bleary smile. “Hey Mangy Grangy, is that you?”

 

With that, Hermione stood up with pursed lips. “Have a nice night, Malfoy,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, you were robbed just now, did you know?”

 

A snore sounded from him.

Hermione surveyed him for about thirty seconds and decided that he was fine. It was a public thoroughfare. There was a twenty four hour convenience store right across the street and despite what had happened to him, it was a fairly safe area, despite all the news discussing “riots.”

Hermione scoffed at that. The news blew it up all out of proportion, because from what she knew from personal experience, protesting was a cultural thing. You didn't want to be outside at night in the midst of it if you were a woman, but it was perfectly safe. Plus, his wallet was already gone, so there would no nothing else to be stolen from him. That was not to mention his henchmen were probably ready to jump out from somewhere and do his every Galleon-backed bidding whenever he wanted. She should be worried only if he showed an inclination to hex unsuspecting Muggles.

She left him and walked back across the street and to her hostel.

 

* * *

 

Her alarm was set for four-thirty in the morning, because the felucca would be taking off at seven in a neighboring city. Hermione ate, tidied up her bags which had already been packed the night before, and headed downstairs.

Hermione had decided to take a taxi to the meeting place since it was a holiday and all, and she didn't remember the area enough to apparate. Also, it seemed to take away from the scenic value if she were going to zip through the area by magic, even if the holiday was unwanted and forced on her. The whole point of this trip, she told herself, was to enjoy the views.

 

When she went downstairs, her eyes slid down the street to the pub, now quiet and she noted with relief that Malfoy was no longer sitting on the curb. That was fine then.

Except upon a second glance over, she saw that he was lying down against the wall of the pub like any common vagrant, his bright hair giving him away.

It really wasn't any of her business that he was being a public nuisance now, but officious habits died hard, so Hermione made her way over across the street again and stared down at his prone figure.

“Malfoy,” she said, nudging him with her foot. When he didn't respond, she pushed harder. “Malfoy!”

Hermione thought about kicking him awake, but then the image of her (a respectable woman) kicking a prone man flashed before her eyes as criminally assaultive although mildly amusing. And then the horrible thought occurred to her that he might no longer be alive.

She dropped down to her knees and rolled him over. His mouth was open and she pried one eye open before checking for his pulse.

“Merlin's hairy arse, woman, I'm trying to get some sleep!” came the unexpected roar.

“You're lying in the middle of the street, you daft idiot!” she recovered to shout right back.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes before looking around and locking on her. He gave an almighty groan. “What now?”

“What do you mean, what now? You're the one being a public nuisance as well as a complete disgrace to England, _and_ a drunken vagrant to boot.”

“Cripes, Granger, don't you ever stop moralizing?”

Hermione stood up. “Moralizing? I'm checking to see if you were stabbed to death in a foreign country by some... rather brilliant Muggles, actually. Oh, and by the way, you were robbed last night, did you know that?”

At that, Malfoy scooted up off one buttock to check his pockets and he scowled. “Ah, fucker!”

“Have a nice life, Malfoy,” Hermione said.

“Wait a minute!” he called after her. “What'd you do with my wand, woman?”

 

Hermione kept walking. A hundred feet away, she heaved a great sigh and turned back. “I didn't take your wand, Malfoy, and keep your damned voice down or else we'll have an international incident on our hands.”

“Well, I can't find my wand,” he complained, but at a more subdued volume.

“Where did you last see it?” she asked and then shook her head. “What are you even doing in Egypt?”

“None of your business, nosy pants,” he said.

“Check your other pocket,” she said through compressed lips.

He felt through all of them and looked up at her with raised eyebrows. She narrowed her eyes. “It's your damned wand,” she hissed. “Stop looking at me like I had anything to do with it. You were sodding drunk yesterday. Or do you make a habit of sleeping in main thoroughfares?”

“I don't, but I'm not usually in Egypt, hey? Weather's quite nice here.”

“Well, I'm glad you're awake now, Malfoy. I've got to be going. There's my taxi now,” she said, inclining her head and waving her fingers sarcastically.

“Can I come with you?” he asked.

Because he had asked in such a small, somewhat pitiful voice (although she was sure he was playing a role), and he had been robbed and couldn't find his wand, Hermione decided it was better to drop him somewhere he could do less harm.

“Fine, let's go,” she said on a resigned sigh.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Rasheed,” she said. Giving him a sideways glance, she added, “Or Rosetta. It's a city. The British embassy is the other way though.” On second thought, it wasn't as though he could go there. Hermione didn't know what had made her say such a thing; maybe her very Muggle flight here and the whole process of going through customs. She was just glad he wasn't saying anything rude about her comment. As a reward, she offered, “I can drop you somewhere along the way.”

 

“I'm going there too. Rasheed, I mean. Rosetta. Whatever.” He cast her a sideways glance tinged with something, but she couldn’t figure out what he was plotting.

“Really?” she said dryly. “You're pretty out of your way then, considering that it's an hour away.”

He did a double take that was so exaggerated Hermione almost laughed.

“You didn't know? Do you know _where_ you are, Malfoy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he replied just as snippily.

The taxi driver got out of the car and came towards them. Hermione gave the driver a steely eyed look and reiterated the price the hostel had quoted her. She emphasized “for the two of us” and gestured at both her and Malfoy. They got in and sped off.

“Are you _sure_ you're going the right way? All the five star hotels are in the other direction. Aren't you staying in one of those?” she asked in a low voice.

“No, but why are we whispering?” he whispered back.

“Because I don't want to be robbed,” she said, glancing towards the front of the cab.

“Oh. I thought you were being stingy because you had dated Weasley so long.”

She made a face. “I wondered how long it was going to take you to make that old joke. Fancy being pushed out of my cab ride?”

 

“No no,” he said, holding up both hands. “I'm the soul of civility, see?”

The roads were fairly deserted at this early hour and combined with how fast they were traveling, it wasn't long before they were deposited at the edge of the pier where the ships and boats were docked, although Hermione had to concentrate to make sure she could cast a cushioning charm in time, in case of a car accident. From past experience, taxi drivers were insane risk-takers, and Egyptian ones even crazier than normal.

Malfoy watched as she paid the driver.

“Interesting experience,” he commented after they were standing alone.

“What is, the cab ride?”

“No, having a woman pay for me,” he said, tilting his head to the side. Hermione saw that his white shirt was very dirty and his black slacks had dust stains. “I don't think I like it. Where do I put my hands?”

“Clasped together in supplication,” she told him.

He snorted in a way that was almost laughter.

She considered him for a bit. “You're looking less than your normal pristine self,” she observed.

He smirked. “Noticed, have you?”

Hermione made a face. “All right, Malfoy. You've gone the whole length of my cab ride. Feel free to go to hell now.”

She took out her itinerary from her bag and walked away from him and towards a bench to go over her notes. After she had taken a seat, she remembered why she was here and extracted a wizarding camera illusioned to look like a disposable camera to take a quick selfie. _There you go, Paxton._ She looked up to find that Malfoy's face was next to hers and that he was wearing a goofy grin for the benefit of the picture.

“Don't tell me you plan to follow me everywhere!” she said, exasperated. “Don't you have somewhere else to be?”

“No,” he said, after giving the question undue consideration.

“Well, I do. I'm setting sail at seven.”

“In that?” he asked, gesturing over his shoulders at the cruise ships with his thumb.

“No, in that,” she said, pointing in front of them at the feluccas bobbing up and down in the following river.

“Huh. What for?”

“It's fun,” she clipped out. “It's a vacation. Thing.”

“You don't sound very sure.”

“I am. It's a vacation.”

“Is it entirely Muggle?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, drawing out the ‘s’.”

“What?” he said. “I didn't even say anything derogatory!”

“You might have.”

“Well, I didn't, Granger,” he said, his tones clipped and hard.

She gazed at him for a moment, and he looked back at her.

“You have dirt on your face,” she said finally.

He scrubbed at his face. “Where are you going, if I may dare ask?”

Hermione jerked down her itinerary. “I'm going to sail the Nile, all right? From start to finish. Delta to Abu Simbei. And you?”

He shrugged.

She considered him for a moment. “What are you doing here? Are you alone?”

“No.”

“With a friend?”

He shrugged.

It was like pulling teeth. “So what are _you_ doing here?”

“Salazar's sweaty sacs, you sure are nosy, Granger!” he finally exploded. “Clearly I'm just up to a bit of Muggle sacrificing.”

Hermione stood up. “Oh, _really._ I'm sure the ministry would be _very_ interested in that!” she snapped, putting a hand on her wand disillusioned and tucked in her belt.

“What the Ministry should be interested in is your complete lack of humor!” he sneered.

“Malfoy, why don't you go--”

Hermione never finished her thought. More people had shown up and were talking amongst themselves now. Two young Asian men, clearly backpackers. An Indian couple. A man and two women, who were laughing quietly amongst themselves. And her. Hermione felt a moment's qualm that she was all alone for this particular adventure, but she squashed the feeling down. It wasn't an adventure at all. She had had enough of adventures in the last decade to last her a lifetime.

It was after seven now, and Hermione frowned as she looked around and debated whether to approach the group of people clearly also waiting for the felucca and wondering where the captain was. Then, at half-past, another man arrived. He jumped down from the pier into one of the sailboats and then climbed back on the pier to grin expectantly around. Hermione stood up and made her way over. She dimly registered Malfoy following behind.

“Is this everyone?” the man who was also clearly their captain was asking. “Let's see, Harmony, is that right?”

Hermione shrugged off the mispronunciation. “Yes, that's me.”

“Mochiyama?” the captain looked at the Japanese men, who were nodding. “Ah, mochi, mochi, very good, yes?”

“The Jorgensons?” The three people smiled pleasantly and resumed speaking what sounded to Hermione's untrained ear as Norwegian.

Then he said, “And you must be the Singhs. Welcome aboard. I am very happy to meet you all. I am Mohamed. My boat is the--”

“And me,” Malfoy said.

Mohamed looked down at his paper and then up at Malfoy. “I'm sorry, I have only eight people on this list, but I make a call to the office.”

“What are you doing?” hissed Hermione. “You're not booked for this trip!”

“I’m coming along too.”

“You have no luggage,” Hermione said. “Or money. Owl your damn parents if you want to sail the Nile. I'm sure you can conjure your own boat.”

“I have no _wand_ ,” he emphasized. “C’mon, isn't the wizarding capital of Egypt in Luxor? Can't you just pay for me? I'll pay you back.”

Hermione looked at Malfoy and folded her arms across her chest. “Right, and I'll help you out why?”

“I'm a lost wizard,” he whined. “You work for the damn Ministry; isn't it your job to help out people like me?”

“People like you? No,” she drew the word out, enjoying herself mightily.

“Don't you think I would be more trouble here among Muggles? Don't you think they'd all be safer with me in England?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said. “On the other hand, England would be more pleasant without you.”

“Do I have to beg?”

Hermione tilted her head to one side. “Yes.”

Immediately, he said, “Granger, please help me go to Luxor-”

“Get on your knees first,” she said.

“What?”

“You heard. I want real begging.”

He glared. “You are a real sadistic bitch, you know that, right?”

“I don't hear begging and the boat is about to leave.”

“Fine!” he snapped, dropping to his knees. “Granger, please help me out, as I know you are a _humanitarian.”_

Hermione looked down at Malfoy, whose faux pleading expression faded as she considered him without a hint of compassion.

“C’mon! I really need a wand!” he said, looking more urgent now.

She smirked. “And there it is. Fine. You can come along.”

He rose from the ground with awkward movements. The ground must have been really hard.

“But you're going to pay me back immediately after you get a wand, you rich bastard,” she added.

“Obviously,” he said snidely as Hermione went forward to speak with the captain and the other curious observers. And then in a lower voice just loud enough for her to hear: “you fucking sadist.” She let him have that because it had been worth it just to toy with him.

Usually, the feluccas were contracted to hold a maximum of twelve people plus crew, so Mohamed was more than happy to accept a last minute addition, despite his demurring, which just meant an additional sum of baksheesh.

They went around and introduced themselves. Mohamed had been running a felucca business for five years now. His sister, wrapped in a hijab, let him do most of the talking. She would be helping with the food. There was also someone else below who Hermione wasn't sure was crew or was just part of the shore-side assistance.

The Asians were brothers in their early thirties named Hashiya and Mashida Mochiyama, although they appeared as youthful as teenagers. They appeared to be very professional at backpacking and had very little gear. The couple was an American-Indian pair named Priya and Ali Singh. They had married straight out of college and were the youngest on board. Hermione guessed this form of travel was cheaper than the more luxurious Nile cruise. The Norwegian trio were Hans Jorgenson and Hans’ wife, Anna, and Anna’s sister, Sofie. Hans was fair, while the women were brunette.

“And you, Miss Harmony, Mr. Draco. Was that a proposal we just saw? Your fiance?”

“ _No_.” They had spoken at the same time.

“Boyfriend, then?”

“No,” she said less loudly but no less emphatically.

“She wishes,” Malfoy added, earning a glare from Hermione.

“Classmates,” Hermione snapped, at the same time Malfoy said, “Co-workers.” They looked at each other and then Hermione said, “Business stuff,” while Malfoy said, “School project.”

The people on board looked from one of them to the other and back again. Hermione noticed that even Mohamed's sister, Rashi, who she wasn't even sure spoke English, stopped what she was doing to look over at them.

Just her luck she had to run into motormouth Malfoy. Hermione patted him on the arm in a show of friendliness while pinching him hard to shut him up. “It was a joke. We just have to make it to Luxor together, that's all.”

“Ouch, dammit, woman. We don't even know each other,” growled Malfoy.

Mohamed nodded politely and started to talk to them about safety. The wearing of life preservers (optional considering there were no children on board). Telling them the itinerary. They would reach Luxor in six days. There was someone else on the boat as well, who would be helping him crew the felucca. His name was also Mohamed, but would go by Mo.

Then they all gingerly crossed a skinny long plank to board the rocking boat, which was padded completely with oilskin mattresses. Hermione took out a bottle of sunblock and liberally coated her skin.

“What's that?” Malfoy asked, taking a seat next to her and stretching out his feet. His face was turned up to the sky and his eyes were closed.

“Sunblock.”

When he glanced at her with a blank expression, she said, “It protects your skin from the sun. Do you want some?”

“What for? I'm not afraid of the sun.” His tone was mildly derisive.

“You should be,” she said, reacting to his tone. “You're the color of a vampire.” Hermione rummaged in her tote and took out a folded up hat. “You should probably wear this then.”

“Why should I?” Malfoy asked incredulously.

“You're going to burn, Malfoy.”

“Nonsense. I never burn. I glow.”

“Fine,” she said, cramming the hat on her own head.

“Are you always such a stick in the mud on vacation, Granger?”

“I _was_ having fun,” Hermione said through her teeth. “Before I bumped into you.” She was reminded of her last conversation with her supervisor, which was just irritating. Whether or not a person had fun had no bearing on the quality of her work, which was par excellence.

Malfoy snorted as though in disbelief and went back to his sun adulation position.

Hermione turned resolutely away from him and resolved to enjoy herself. What was it to her if he burned his albino skin? What was it to her if nobody ever listened to her good advice? She didn’t have to be right all the time, she thought, and took a deep breath. _Even though she usually was_.

They sailed for three hours before they stopped for lunch. Hermione spent her time lying in the shade of the sail and ignoring Malfoy. By the time the boat was tethered by the side of the Nile and she walked off the plank onto a small stretch of beach between protrusions of reeds, Hermione decided that it would do no harm to find out exactly what he was up to in the Muggle world. After all, he had never been a proponent of Muggle rights and he should have been cowering at the side at every non-magical item around.

Hermione turned to face Malfoy and gasped aloud. He was bright red. It looked as though he had even opened his shirt to soak in the sun and now his chest was also a V of redness.

“What now?” he asked in irritation.

“Malfoy, you're…you're as red as a lobster.”

“No, I'm not. I'm just a bit pink.”

Good grief, the man was so contrary.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay, whatever. Have it your way.”

She walked off in the middle of his childish “I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

To say that Draco felt like rebelling after the second wizarding war would have been one giant understatement.

He had gone his whole damn life as the most obedient son in the world. Having always vaguely known of his role as the Malfoy scion ever since he could talk, it had been cemented into his head when he was eight. That was when Narcissa and Lucius sat him down in the Malfoy Library and informed him of the impossibility of future siblings. That was how old he had been when they had drilled him on how he was to be the sole example of Pureblood heirs, the light to herald the way through the darkness, the leader of the pack, etc., etc. There were more, but he had tuned out the rest, except he recalled his mother  _really_  loved her metaphors.

It had been a right long lecture, with the united front of his parents sitting with their back to the three storey-high windows, talking to him for hours on end until he swore he could see the sun moving across the sky behind his parents' heads. The library was the place for Portentous Talks. It was the largest room in the Malfoy Manor, and most areas of the room were charmed into fading into the background when not in use. For Portentous Talks, however, the entire library swelled in size so that one was sitting in an auditorium of towering bookshelves, the usual sound absorbency turned off. Fun indeed.

He could still remember almost every aspect of the lecture in outline form:

1\. Lucius and Narcissa hold hands as they inform him of the dangerous and futile impossibility of more children. Narcissa dabs at her eyes with lace handkerchief. (As a little boy, Draco blinked back tears at the vivid description of blood and pain undergone by Narcissa.)

2\. Lucius stands up to make the Malfoy Lineage Monologue, complete with floating pictures and a giant scroll of the Family Tree, enlarged at specific portions to emphasize certain prominent hereditary aspects. Narcissa sniffs and listens with rapt attention, back ramrod straight. And always at the end of every other point was the hint of being disowned for not living up to the family name.

3\. Narcissa's turn to discuss the Honor Due the Black Name. Monologue is rife with disappointments that have broken, yea,  _literally_  broken a parent's heart. Countless Black matrons actually died from their heart cracking open and spilling out of their ribcage. (As a child, Draco dreaded seeing his mother's hand clasped to her chest, as he feared her heart was  _literally breaking apart_.) As it was, he blinks back more tears as Narcissa hauls out the big guns and tells of the examples of unruly,  _terrible_  sons and how a mother's childbearing pains are  _nothing_  to having an ungrateful and disobedient son.

4\. Lucius takes over and discusses appalling examples of Pureblood wizards in the last generation. Weasley, Longbottom, and anyone sorted into Gryffindor top the list, since Hufflepuff was only a step up from Squibdom. They are  _persona non grata_  to a Malfoy, and if one should come across such a low being, kicking them behind the knees to bring them down would be the least of what one was expected to do.

5\. Narcissa continues by discussing how a bad alliance could ruin a good person  _forever._ Her second cousin, Sirius, is brought up as the penultimate example of good blood gone rogue. Case in point, the bad seed cast a spell to randomly kill wizards (even perfectly fine non-blood-traitor Purebloods not at the Dark Lord's behest!) and now languishes in Azkaban. Before and after pictures to emphasize how a bad alliance can also ruin one's looks and teeth forever.

And so on and so forth. It was the  _longest lecture_  he had ever had the misfortune to endure. His Slytherin mates asked how he could withstand Professor Binns' droning and stay awake to take notes. Easy. He wasn't being double-teamed with the sun strategically in his eyes, with alternating guilt and responsibility drilled into him as though his parents had had  _actual tools_  to pummel the concepts into his brain. For the entire five hours, he alternated between tearing up from Narcissa's emotional blackmail and scowling manly at his father's military-styled yelling.

Never again, by Salazar's stinking armpits. Never again.

And so he avoided future lectures to the best of his ability. When his mother asked him about his grades, with the indication another lecture would be forthcoming, Draco swore vehemently throughout the Manor halls he would beat out that unnatural Mudblood. How else could she have beat him anyway? She had not only stolen someone's magic, but also someone's brains, of course. When his father asked about Quidditch after he heard through the board of Harry Potter's first year position as a Seeker, Draco ranted about the unfairness of a blood traitor's poor orphan son getting the spot without a fair tryout. He noticed at an early age that whenever he ranted and raved about Unfairness, his father would calm down. It was as though his father vicariously relived his own unhappy childhood through him, and Draco's anger alleviated the vein of anger running under his father's calm exterior. Later, he came to understand that they were grooming him to achieve everything they had failed to achieve, and that meant a lot of manipulation and brainwashing. Draco's anger on their behalf of the Things That Mattered meant they had succeeded. Unhappiness was the root of ambition, and the Malfoys were nothing but ambitious. After all, contentment didn't reap any rewards but that of sitting on one's fat, lazy arse, which was why Draco was so lanky as a teen. It was possible generations of Malfoys equated weight with corresponding laziness. Draco was lean on a good day and skinny as a scarecrow when stressed.

Anyway, from what he could figure, he was to:

1\. Return the Malfoy status back to the days of yore and reattain ye olde title.

2\. Marry super young to an attractive, brilliant, Pureblood witch of unsurpassed powers, not unlike the famed Morgana, and create an army of powerful, attractive Pureblood babies. (Charisma was essential to the garnering of political power, and attractiveness was an acceptable second place holder.)

3\. Reclaim the masses of property that had been under the Malfoy demesne that had been lost to various (Muggle) politicians.

4\. Multiply the family coffers so that they have even more money than they currently possess. Essentially become  _the_  top wizard family in terms of wealth. Exact numbers counted down to the knut.

5\. Attain everlasting immortality.

These goals, with the exception of number 2 (but maybe that was also included), were supposed to be accomplished with the alliance with Lord Snake-face, because  _he_  had supposedly achieved immortality and high status. Later, Draco was to wonder why anyone who had achieved any combination of the above goals would want to ally themselves with people  _also_ aiming to be number one. That seemed to just be asking for a rival to topple you off your pedestal. That was not even to mention how Draco had almost spit out his pumpkin juice when he realized that "Lord Voldemort" was a random title the madman gave himself. If it were that easy to attain a title, Draco thought that it would have been far simpler if his father had just also called himself Lord Malfoy. No, how about King Malfoy, if one wanted to aim high and delusional?

But he figured that unbelievable ambition and greed had blinded his parents. Hell, he had once been similarly ambitious. Now, he thought that if he could get his hands on the damn Sorting Hat, he would demand to be placed in Hufflepuff. With the exception of Cedric Diggory and his Deadness, they all seemed to be a vacuous but fairly happy lot. What did ambition breed but endless unhappiness? Unhappiness was inevitable in squalor, his parents would reply, apparently never having come into close contact with the happy and grubby rabbits that were the Weasleys. And when was enough  _enough_?

That was when he had set his bleeding foot down.

After he had left Hogwarts after a travesty of a seventh year, his parents had laid off him for a few years. That was also when he had been at Durmstrang, which was a lonely but generally civil enough existence, where he had worked hard to catch up on coursework. His new schoolmates were wary of Draco, and his Dark Mark had been clearly visible to them in activities where forearms were inevitably bared. He was also one year older than the oldest of them and knew how to duel with dark spells, having been taught by the best, and his classmates were already looking ahead to life after graduation, so there was little threat of any possible hazing. That was lucky given that he no longer had Crabbe and Goyle to back him up. Furthermore, the thought of Crabbe was always guaranteed to make him tear up a little. Nobody knew Crabbe like he had, and he really missed that bloke and his antipathy for seafood, ironically.

Even after he returned home, his parents had to regroup themselves, what with trials and political maneuverings and side plots to render former Death Eaters destitute, so that happily left him by himself for most of the time despite the tense atmosphere. It was a harrying time, with lots of monetary maneuverings, because the Malfoys didn't do well with poverty and skimping on hair products. But after all that business had ended, they were back again. In the library. Holding hands. Interfering and issuing dictates again.

"Draco," his father said. "It has come to my attention that you are still single."

Oh,  _really_.  _He_  hadn't noticed. Draco hadn't dignified his father's opening with a response, although the childish part of him had wanted to snort aloud.

"Before we begin, we would like you to know that your mother and I are of two minds regarding this issue," Lucius said, causing Draco's eyebrows to rise. "That is to say, we have mixed feelings about this, but our resolve is one and the same."

Draco grimaced. So what else was new? His mother had "mixed feelings" about her only living son getting the Dark Mark but she allowed it anyway.

"Given that our line is, let's just say, not without some trouble propagating, we are very hopeful that you will…get things moving," Lucius continued, and Narcissa gave a brief nod. Draco looked from one parent to the other. Apparently this wasn't where his mother had her mixed feelings.

"Naturally, our original wish was for you to marry a Pureblood of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, however, the Malfoys have never been…oblivious of the dictates of popular opinion."

Draco raised his eyebrows. Now this was new. Could his parents be sitting him down for a non-controlling edict? Or were they here to expand the concept of Purebloods, to include, say, non-Sacred Twenty-Eight members? Or maybe the Weasleys were now no longer off limits? He wanted to snicker at that thought. No, no way that could ever happen. Plus, they had only the one girl, wizarding gods be praised, and she had fired off a couple of hexes in his direction during the war.

"Although your mother steadfastly wishes otherwise, because the Family Name and wealth have recently undergone some negative impact, we have decided that it would behoove this family to compromise. Considering that Harry Potter is now the 'savior' of wizarding Britain and that there is a not insubstantial statue being erected of him in the new atrium of the Ministry, we have seen how the wind blows." Lucius paused for effect. It tended to be long whenever his father had an audience.

Draco forced himself to not roll his eyes but there was no stopping his father when he wanted to be stagey.

Narcissa cut into the dramatic pause. "Your father and I have drawn up a list of suitable half-blood witches for you to make a selection. The ones with an asterisk beside their names are your father's and my preferred candidates. These are the ones who, when your father was on the Board, demonstrated above average proficiency."

"Although this could, admittedly, dilute our lineage, it is not a considerable setback in lieu of redeeming our image in the eyes of society. In fact, we estimate that within three generations, we shall be able to cull the Muggle aspect out of our line and return to our former Pureblood tradition."

"Indeed," his mother interjected smoothly. "In raising our albino peacocks, you too must have seen the lengths we go to to preserve the Leucistic Mutation in the ones without true albinism. However, to prevent weakness, we will sometimes allow a stray gene to strengthen the existing livestock. In flowers too, we will accept pollination from wildflowers from time to time to reinforce their longevity and hardiness, etc."

Oh, Merlin, if his mother got started on her flowers and metaphors, this lecture would never end.

"Let me just see the list," Draco said impatiently, hoping to speed his parents' double act on its way.

Lucius and Narcissa looked at each other and both raised their wands. Apparently, each had had negating rights in composing the list to Draco's marital bliss and future progeny. Their wands shot out two puffs of smoke that merged and the resultant list of names blurred for a moment before becoming clear.

"Penelope Clearwater. Felicity Eastchurch. Susan Li. Amanda Brocklehurst," Draco read the first few names with an asterisk, skipping over the others, before looking up. "These are all Ravenclaw witches."

"Indeed," said his father smugly. "This is a particularly sensitive juncture in our political history, and most Ravenclaws made a sensible move to stay neutral. Therefore, most of these families would not be adverse to dating or marrying a Malfoy, and these witches all have the distinction of being excellent in their year."

"Pig-Pen Clearwater is five years older than I am and she looks like a pig!" Draco was incensed enough to say.

"She was made a prefect, if I recall," said his mother. "Naturally her age is a downside, but the Clearwater line has always been quite prolific. Unfortunately, unlike her, none of her younger sisters are single."

"Yeah, with good reason," he said rudely. "And I know she was Prefect because she kept docking points from me! Felicity Eastchurch? That witch is a right bitch! And that's saying something given I'm friends with Pansy!"

"The Eastchurch family has had several Slytherins over the generations and-"

"I can't believe you two are still going on about that. The damned Sorting Hat is a curse to all the students. I bet it was left there as a prank and the joke's on all of us," Draco said sourly.

"Susan Li-"

"Cho Chang's less attractive version, I remember her."

"-has extensive connections in Asia. It would dilute our Pureblood coloring, but consider the pros of adding the Eastern mystics to our magical arsenal."

"Next."

"Amanda Brocklehurst's father is a Muggle, however, there have always been Brocklehurst wizards, leaving me to believe the magic skips generations in the male line."

Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing. Skipped generations-so his parents were okay with him having Squib children as long as the line kept going? So he was going to be yet another sacrifice in their grand scheme to come out smelling like roses?

He couldn't remember feeling so angry before in his life. No, wait, he had been feeling just this angry for any number of years now. They never learned, his damned parents. They wanted to control him as though he were just another house elf-he suddenly felt a great surge of pity for those freaky looking things. And Draco's almost being  _cursed to death_  because of their piss poor choices in life didn't seem to have taught them anything at all.

Draco used his wand to  _evanesco_  their stupid list. "I'm thinking of getting married," he said. "To a nice Muggle girl I met traveling."

You could have heard an elf blink in that moment.

"What Muggle girl?" said Lucius Malfoy with narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils.

Draco almost laughed out loud. So marrying a half-blood with a high risk of Squib children was perfectly fine, since it was their decision. But marrying someone Muggle, which would be a decision much to be revered in this post-war era, was not, because it was  _his_  decision. Even though he could be in love with said Muggle. He really wanted to throw a tantrum now, but controlled himself. Yelling had never availed him of anything with his father unless it was regarding his father's numbered adversaries or causes.

"Oh, Merlin," said his mother, who he had never heard curse before. The lace handkerchief had appeared again.

"Yeah, well," Draco said with a shrug. He was almost enjoying himself. He had never before behaved like this with his parents, and maybe, he thought callously, it was long overdue. Where else did you find a son in this day and age who did everything the parents wanted, up to and including getting a truly heinous and disfiguring mark that symbolized Bottomless Evil, not to mention a willingness to murder a harmless and dotty old man on the parents' say?

"I thought you'd be pleased," he said, affecting innocence. "After all, having Squib children every other generation would be acceptable in order to curry society's favor."

"Half-blood wizards are still...tethered to our society with longstanding ties," pronounced his father awfully.

"But Muggles are even  _better_  than Half-bloods for proving to everyone how much the Malfoys have changed. For the better. To prove how we were 'imperiused.'" Draco felt like giving the word air quotes.

"Who is this girl?" asked Lucius, standing up, back to the backdrop of sunlit windows.

Draco was prepared this time. He whipped out a pair of sunglasses that he had gotten, courtesy of the post-war Muggle souvenirs shop that had opened up in Diagon Alley. His father's right eye twitched as he popped them on his nose. "Just some girl that might be the one," he said, leaning back on the armchair with a distinct lack of deference. He even popped a knuckle just to see his father's eyebrow jump. "She's right enamored of me and the peacocks."

"How did you meet this girl?" asked his mom, gazing right into his eyes through the dark lens.

Luckily for Draco, he was prepared and damned good at occlumency, courtesy of his extracurricular activities as a teen. He gazed limpidly right back at her. "The usual way. While I was walking around in Muggle London."

There was an audible gasp after which his parents shared a Look.

"And her name is?" Lucius asked with eyes narrowed into slits.

Draco almost laughed out loud. His father clearly planned to scour their  _Birdwhistle's Guide to Wizarding Peerage 1200-1995_ , which was reissued every fifteen years. The 1995 edition had been labeled,  _Edited and Now With Continental Lineage._ The day after it had come out, his parents had been secreted with the book in the library for a very concentrated two weeks. His father had even donned spectacles, which he usually eschewed for vanity's sake. "I don't think I'll say it just yet."

Narcissa intervened with a restraining hand on Lucius's arm. "Let's have the girl over then, shall we?" she said.

Right. As though his mom hadn't been trained offstage of his father's main event. As though Narcissa Malfoy wouldn't pull out all stops in attempting to roust any pretentious gold-diggers. Draco couldn't help smirking at such blatant double standards. Apparently it was only okay for the Malfoys to be endlessly ambitious and grasping.

"Sorry, no can do," he said blithely. "I'm off on a trip with Blaise to his motherland. His new father's bought him a yacht and I've got a very coveted invite."

His parents drew in a collective breath. Blaise Zabini was one of those rare Purebloods that straddled the edge of right and wrong. He could see in their shared glance the chart that formed in their eyes:

The Right:

\- He was a Pureblood.

\- His family was wealthy.

\- His family name was old, powerful blood.

The Wrong:

\- They did not support the Dark Lord (misery loves company, and currently there was nobody as miserable as a former Death Eater supporter).

\- The family wealth came from licentious and nontraditional means. (The Zabinis did not care enough about reputation to hide disreputable means).

\- His mother reputedly killed off her husbands. (This type of action went against Lucius's beliefs, for obvious reasons.)

Summary of the Malfoys' hesitation: Unresolved qualms until further notice.

"I'll contact you when I get back," Draco said with a negligent wave as his parents tried to puzzle out their dilemma through a series of pointed shared looks. As he apparated away (courtesy of the new wardlessness of the Major, to emphasize the Malfoys' newfound openness and goodwill to all), he thought how terrible rebelling was when deep at heart, he really still just wanted to make his parents happy and proud of him. Damned sentimentality. He was no better than a bloody trained dog.

 

* * *

 

"Mate, you've just got to let it go," Blaise said, as they drifted in the Mediterranean Sea.

"Great advice, Blaise," Draco said. "You have a mother who couldn't care less about your personal life and every new father you have buys you toys to win you over."

"Yeah, it's great, isn't it," Blaise gave a very unpoised cackle of laughter before running his hand along the polished wood of his ocean-worthy yacht. "Isn't she beautiful? I've decided to call her Helen of Troy."

"That unfaithful tramp," snorted Draco.

"True love," Blaise corrected. "You Malfoys really need to rethink the soulmate business. True love can happen several times in a lifetime."

"Not soulmate," Draco corrected. "Faithfulness. Marriage. And just once in a lifetime."

"Yeah, whatever. That's overrated. Marriage doesn't last. You know what does?" Blaise asked, wagging his eyebrows and stroking the railing again. "Things. Objects. Material items."

"Yeah. You've just recited a list of things that go to lawyers in the event of a divorce. And you know what else lasts? Bloody ugly dark marks on your damn skin."

Blaise chortled in appreciation. "They really had a list of suitable witches for you?"

"Can you doubt it?"

"Was Lisa Turpin on the list?"

"Who's that?"

"Ravenclaw our year. Half-blood. They really didn't mention her? She's quite pretty and er, dedicated to matters relating to the heart." Blaise waggled his eyebrows up and down pointedly.

"Rest assured there was some issue with her, or else she would've been on there as well. They had Pig-pen Clearwater on there, for crying out loud."

"So what are you planning to do about your problem? Where are you going to find a Muggle to show them you mean business?" Blaise didn't approve of Muggles, but he approved of a good prank.

"I'll improvise," Draco said. "There are tons of Muggles flying around the world.  _Literally_ , I'm told. All I have to do is wiggle my fingers."

"Oh, really?" Blaise said drily. "Tried it, have you? Wiggled your fingers and they came running, did they?"

"It can't be that hard," Draco said. "I had plenty of Pureblood witches who liked me."

"The Muggle ones hated your guts," Blaise piped in.

"Shut up," Draco scowled.

"The thing is," Blaise said, sipping on his cocktail. "You have no idea how to navigate the Muggle world. You've simply never been around that many Muggles."

"Can you blame me?" Draco asked with another frown. He wanted to relax, not have Blaise rain on his bloody parade.

"What you need to do is to have a really great story be your lead-in to these Muggle ladies. Lost at sea, something like that," Blaise said with a wave of his hand.

"How many of those have you had?" Draco asked, looking pointedly at Blaise's drink. "Rowena's crooked cankles, can you pick a more feminine drink, Blaise? It even has an umbrella in it, you bloody ponce."

"Look, I like it with an umbrella in it, all right? Listen, it's perfect. You need to just be washed up on a beach. Lots of lovely ladies on the beach. See, right over there. Muggle ladies don't wear much on the beach, especially in Italy and France and Greece. You walk up with your wet shirt and you whip your hair back-"

Blaise stopped talking and looked up as an owl swooped past.

"That's my father's owl," Draco said, frowning.

The note dropped down at Draco's feet. He picked it up. It was blank. "What the bloody hell?" he barely had enough time to say before a swoosh of a broom, and his father had landed in front of them.

"Draco, have I taught you nothing?" his father smirked, clearly much too pleased with himself. "Sending an empty note via owl, and follow the owl-"

"By broom, yes, I sort of figured it out, father," Draco finished with heavy irony.

"Pleasant as this is," Lucius stated, gazing about the yacht. "Your duty and home is with us. I must insist you come along with me."

"We've been over this, father," Draco bit out. "We'll just have to agree to disagree."

"Now, now, Draco," Lucius adjured in iron-hard tones. "Let's not air our, er, family squabbles in polite company. Shall we adjourn to a more private location?"

Lucius walked forward, his hand outstretched, and Draco saw the intent in his father's eye. Before Blaise had the chance to shout a warning, Draco had looked over his friend's shoulder and his brain had latched onto the small stretch of land in the distance. Without a second to lose, despite the risk of splinching for apparation over water, Draco disappeared with a sharp crack.

When he looked up, he realized with a sinking heart that Blaise had indeed been drinking more than a few of those poncey cocktails, because the beach he had pointed to was not endowed with any number of unclad ladies and was instead clearly nowhere he recognized. For one thing, he was pretty conversant with the Italian shoreline, Italy having been one of his parents' "approved" places. He had also gone to Greece before, despite the fact that his mother generally thought of Greece as being licentious, a notion that came from the history of ancient civilizations rather than current affairs. He was also fairly sure that Greece was mountainous in geography, although the mental image of all those islands had him in a paroxysm of fear. If he were stranded on one of those islands...

But no, this shoreline was completely flat, with only buildings in the distance to break up the monotony of the flat sand. For another, sure, there were a few unclad women, but by far outnumbering them were the ones covered up or wearing cloaks of black. He practically glowed with his blond hair, pale skin, and white shirt. The sun was also uncommonly strong and it was  _extremely_  warm. Almost toasty, actually. Made a bloke want to strip down to his skivvies. Could he be in…  _Africa_?

Draco was conversant in French, German, Latin, and had a working knowledge of Gaelic and Old Norse-all important wizarding languages taught to him via private tutors prior to and in between term at Hogwarts. What he didn't have was any sort of knowledge of Arabic, which was primarily tied in with a religion that shunned witchcraft and wizardry.

"Fucking,  _fucking_ Blaise!" he swore mightily, not that it helped to alleviate his frustration. He shaded his eyes to stare out at the Mediterranean. The yacht was blinking just out of view, not that he could risk apparating like that again. He calculated that the yacht had been approximately roughly a hundred kilometers out to sea, which was pushing the apparation limits for blind apparating and/or apparating over water. He was lucky that he had landed on the beach. Maybe his Determination had been so strong that it pushed him the extra distance. Still, trying to go back so soon was a bad idea not only for physical reasons, but also because his father was probably there having an almighty row with Blaise. Really, he needed to rack up more locations on his apparation list so that international travel would be more convenient for him. He might have to find a place to while away the time while he looked around for a floo.

But bollocks on a stick, he had made a bigger hash of things than he had previously thought. It had been a while since he had traveled, since he had been pretty annoyed and depressed the past few years, worrying his trust fund would disappear. Then before that, his last few years in Hogwarts was hardly spent jetting abroad to soak in the sun. He had forgotten that not every country used floos to travel. He had failed to consider that other floos-should they be available-wouldn't operate in English. Since he hadn't planned to be anywhere but aboard a luxury yacht by any means (sodding Blaise), he hadn't taken into consideration that northern Africa was a deeply religious territory and that wizardry was long dead or so far underground that it was practically undetectable.

Furthermore, having never before navigated the Muggle world for any length of time, he was soon bewildered and exhausted. Since apparently he had managed to get himself lost somewhere in the outskirts of town, by dint of a few more blind apparation.

Two young early twenties men had approached him to "welcome him to Egypt" (so that was where he was) and practice their English on him. He was quite frankly, glad of a welcoming face, and had gone foolishly along with them for a few "drinks."

The next thing he knew, he was waking up to find Hermione Granger staring down at him from a great height and the contents of his pockets missing. Including his wand. Fucking hell. Fucking Egypt.

 

X.x.X

 

Draco guessed he could do worse than bumping into Granger. He could have bumped into a Weasley, which, from their ability to multiply and populate the planet like rabbits, it would have surprised him far,  _far_  less.

Ron Weasley, for one, wouldn't have hesitated to hex him to oblivion. That was, if the dumb, clumsy git could have gotten to his wand in time and not dropped it or broken it in half in the process.

There were several other reasons why it was good that the person he had the misfortune to bump into was Granger. An upside was that if he refrained from pissing her off, she would feel morally obligated to help him out, possibly going out of her way to do so, due to that know-it-all tendency. A downside of refraining from pissing her off was that he'd be missing out on a whole lot of fun. She was just so fun to rile up, not to mention she didn't retreat into a corner to cry about it like certain Purebloods he knew who may or may not have gotten sorted into Gryffindor.

Of course, her being a swotty know-it-all also tended to ruin his fun.

For example, he was indeed burning up, dammitall.


	3. Chapter 3

They had reached Naucratis and were halfway to Cairo. With the boat tethered, they were able to cross the reeds lining both banks of the Nile and make a place for themselves on the banks. There were relics of ancient Egypt all around them. Mohamed explained that they were sitting in the ruins of a former temple. Hermione thought coming on this trip was turning out to be a better time than she expected.

That was, until she looked over at Malfoy, grinning at the Nordic trio. Her delight soured a bit. Not only had she paid double her expected fare, but she also had to watch that lowlife have a good time on her account.

Hermione helped Rashi set up the food on top of the stone pillars around the banks and grinned with Priya, who said, “Who knew ancient temples could make such an awesome picnic area?”

Hermione did know it, but she engaged in idle chit chat with Priya as they discussed the cuisines of different cultures. The Egyptian flatbread was hauled out onto the bank in a basket very like a laundry basket and set in the sand. It also looked like Rashi had prepared a lot of the food ahead of time, as each platter was carried across the plank and set on the blanket on the ground.

There was ta’meya, which made Hermione's mouth water just to look at it. Ta’meya was crushed fava bean fried in the shape of balls, and she had had it for breakfast just that morning in a flatbread, but it was so good that she could happily have eaten it for several meals in a row.

There was fresh salad with lots of cilantro and tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs halved and spiced. The main course was sandwiches with thin slices of lamb and baked with cheese. There were also small bowls of dukka, a mixture of spices and sesame seeds as a garnish, baba ganoush, tahini, and of course lots of fresh lemon. For dessert, there was a heaping platter of fresh fruit served with honey.

Hermione and Malfoy were behaving like strangers, which was just fine with her. He was chatting it up with the Norwegian trio, especially the unmarried girl, and she found it surprising, given that in all the time she had known him, he hadn't seem that interested in girls other than telling them who his father was. And she had been sure Pansy Parkinson had only been interested in him because of his wealth, which appeared nonexistent today, given his general unhygienic state and lack of dumb lackey bodyguards.

That was really strange. Maybe he couldn't afford coming out here. Was he really lost, for example? She really needed to find out what he was doing here, nosiness be damned.

After they had eaten, she approached him. “We need to talk,” she said.

Malfoy gazed at her for a moment in which he was probably contemplating a snarky comment, but he must've thought better of it when she glared back at him. He got up and followed her.

She eyed his red face doubtfully, but his expression was so defensive and challenging that she gave up trying to ask if he needed help. Instead, “I think you owe me an explanation,” she said, adding when he looked decidedly recalcitrant, “Given that I paid your fare.”

“Fine, fine. What do you want to know?” he asked, sounding distinctly unfriendly. So, basically, his old self.

“What are you doing in Egypt?” she asked. Without thinking about what she was doing, her eyes drifted down to his left arm.

He rolled his eyes so hard that his head even fell backwards. “Oh, you got me,” he said, snapping his fingers. “What was that thing I forgot to do? Right, summon my associates of evil and plot world domination.”

Hermione flushed. The sarcastic prat hadn't changed a bit. “I didn't say a word,” she protested, a bit feebly, even to her own ears.

“Oh yes, your side glances and pointed comments _definitely_ weren't leading up to anything specific or slanderous. Didn't you consider I might have gone in for a spot of sightseeing?”

“Fine,” she huffed at his sarcasm. “But even you have to admit that your presence in the midst of all this--” she dropped her voice-- “ _Muggleness_ is out of character. And you really do look the worse for wear,” she said, nodding at his now less than clean shirt. His shirt now bore additional stains on it where he had been less than careful with tomatoes from lunch. It had to be bothering him more than he was letting on, given how he could have passed for a mannequin in school days. The only stain missing from his clothes was a bloodstain, which definitely would have made her sit up with attention.

“Godric’s great galloping gonads, I didn't know you cared, Granger,” he said, clipping out every word.“If the sight displeases you so much, you could always _tergeo_ me right now,” he said. “Because if anyone can do magic in front of Muggles and not get in trouble for it, it'd be you, wouldn't it? Merlin forbid we actually follow the rules around here.”

Her mouth dropped open in the midst of this tirade. “What are you talking about now?” she asked.

“C’mon, we both know you're enjoying seeing me brought so low and ooh, Draco Malfoy doesn't have a wand and is stuck in the _Muggle_ world. Let's lord it over him and really rub it in under the guise of being a do-gooder. I appreciate your paying for me, but it doesn't give you rights over me.”

God, he was one thoroughly dislikeable, ungrateful _arse_. Not to mention that chip on his shoulders had only gotten bigger with time.

Hermione pursed her lips into a thin line. “You haven't changed the slightest since Hogwarts. You seem to think that either the world exists only to serve you or that you're always the victim. Did you ever think that I could help you? That all you needed to do was to ask nicely and say please?”

He snorted in response.

“What?” she demanded. “What does _that_ mean?”

“That means you're a fucking interfering know-it-all, Granger! I just need to get to Luxor and get a new wand, that’s all, all right? Unless you want to know how many teeth I have as well.”

They were facing off towards each other with tense shoulders and jutting jaws. “Excuse me for trying to help, your supreme foulness,” she said angrily. “I would similarly prefer to stay out of your way, so let's just keep away from each other, shall we?”

She turned away from him, now in a thoroughly bad mood. What a bleeping arse. And it was her own damn fault for letting him tag along with her. Why couldn't she just left well enough alone? Now she was left here wondering if she really was an interfering nosy cow whose presence was unwelcome everywhere. She felt mildly like crying. Maybe she really was overly judgmental. Her first thought _had_ been whether he was here to look up some dark artifact of some kind. And she had been right there at the front after the war, talking about forgiveness and how overly harsh sanctions wouldn't rebuild bridges.

On the other hand, nothing short of _obliviating_ over a decade of unpleasant memories could bridge any sort of gap between them. That albino bastard.

 

* * *

 

Malfoy was burning the hell up.

He regretted going off on her as soon as the words exited his mouth, but he had a habit of speaking first and apologizing never, and the habit worsened when he wasn't at his best.

During the boat ride, he had occupied himself by casting his glances over at Hermione to see if she had noticed him having a grand old time, laughing it up with the Nordic trio, but she seemed immersed in helping with the food and talking to Mohamed or Priya. It also didn't help that the trio was comprised of a brunette married to a tall, broad man, with the third being another dark-haired individual. The similarities to the Golden Trio were further emphasized since Lars Jorgenson was also distinctly freckly, despite being a blond.

But all that was besides the point. She needn’t sit on her throne of righteousness, dictating terms down to him, because he had had it with taking orders from anyone. Also, there was some pleasure in falling back on old patterns of insulting her based on nothing, because she was always _so convinced_ she was right.

Dammit if she wasn't right _again_. And this time, that unpleasantness was accompanied with the fact that she had the upper hand.

Merlin's great balls of fire, what he wouldn't give for a wand _right now_. Truth be told, the pain was sort of making him hallucinate. Never having experienced this sort of pain before, he sort of understood the myths where someone wanted to shoot out the sun. He felt very sympathetic to that person's goals.

He needed Granger (her wand) _right now_.

He stumbled back over to her, but she resolutely kept her profile to him, making him roll his eyes. She was going to make him work for it, was she? For Merlin's sake, she and that motley group of hers had gone around Hogwarts, breaking every single rule around the place, and _still_ they pretended that they were all high and mighty. As though he was wrong just for existing. Talking to him in that self-righteous tone as though he were always in the wrong, looking down on him, trying to make him feel stupid, just like his father had been doing _all his damn life_. Fucking hell, the whole world was out to manipulate him, including his school nemesis. Draco realized he was starting to mumble under his breath, not unlike a crazy person.

Fine then. Just fine. He could do it, he thought with a savage grin on his face. He could play her as well as he had his parents. And she really deserved it too, the self-righteous bint. Making him beg. _On his knees_. Oh, she was going to pay.

“I'm sorry,” he said. His evil plan coated the loathsome words with honey, so that they slid out of his throat with no difficulty at all.

“It's fine,” she said in a low voice, still not turning around.

Oh, she was going to play that game, was she now? The ignore-Draco-until-he does-what-you-want game that his father pulled out at every juncture. He was a pro at that game. He _knew_ that game backwards and forwards. Sure, he had gotten angry at her earlier because he was so used to reacting with anger when something failed to go his way, simply because it always worked so well with his father, but he had other tricks also.

“It's just I'm not feeling well,” he said, behaving much as he would if his mother were around. He had to be much more subtle than with Pansy, because his mother was far more perceptive and suspicious. Also, with her, he had to straddle the line between getting sympathy and treats versus being bedridden for some ridiculous, overprotective reason.

She glanced sideways at him, and he could see from the slight sheen over her eyes that she really had been upset. Had his little words upset the brave little Gryffindor then? Psh, seriously? He had called her Mudblood when she was much younger and she hadn’t batted an eye, knocked her bag off her shoulder and she hadn't reacted. Maybe she had gotten soft with time and thus made for an even better target.

“I--I’m not used to the sun, I guess,” he said, playing it up. After a few years playacting to Aunt Bella and her hero worship of the Dark Lord, Draco thought he really had been hiding a dormant acting ability. His glee wasn't diminished in the least by the fact he only had one person in his audience.

She took a deep breath, blinked several times, and turned to face him. “Let’s take a walk behind those columns,” she said.

“What, why?” he said, suddenly suspicious.

“So I can heal you, of course,” she said, standing up and brushing off the rear of her shorts. He noticed, purely academic, of course, that her arse was quite pert and shapely. There was still a smudge of sunblock on her legs that she hadn’t rubbed in, and that took away his attention from her delightful arse and made him sour at her again. Damned Granger, that know-it-all.

They walked into the ruins and she made short work of casting a healing charm to his sunburns and then a cooling charm that instantly made him shiver with pleasure. She was an annoying swot, but there was no denying she knew her charms. After a moment she waved her wand over him again and he felt a slight tingle. “Disillusionment charm. I think it might be best if you still look a little red to our friends. It'll wear off in a few hours.”

And then she did a quick _tergeo_ over his clothes. “I can’t make it too obvious because the others have already seen you,” she said. “I guess I should have done it earlier.”

“Uh, no. This is great. Thanks,” he said, completely sincere this time. He hadn’t expected her to clean him up. Truthfully, he _had_ been feeling grimey and he had been egging her on earlier in an effort to get cleaned up. Her spellwork was really excellent. The clothes looked only slightly better, due to her subsequent glamour charm, but he already felt much cleaner.

“It's really a potion, you know,” she said. “It's not Mudblood poison.”

“What is?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Sunblock.”

“Was it invented by vampires?”

“No.” Now she was the one looking confused when all he had done was try to crack a joke. They seriously had no rapport whatsoever and were just standing around frowning in confusion at each other.

“Why are you really in Egypt?” she asked, and his gratitude disappeared. Always with the questions. Always wanting to know everything, the annoying bint. Well, he was ready for it this time.

“I jumped ship,” he said, deciding to stick as closely to the truth as possible.

“What?” she said, frowning.

“I jumped ship. I was in the Mediterranean with Blaise and my father was trying to catch me, so I jumped ship.”

“Catch you? Why?” she asked. Her eyes flickered as she spoke and he could see her brain jumping around.

“I’m…” Draco had to really force himself not to laugh out loud this time. “I’m dating a Muggle,” he said, looking away from her so that he could keep a straight face.

“A _what_?” she said. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you were...something?”

“Dating. A Muggle. A Muggle _girl_ ,” he said, just to make sure she didn’t get any funny ideas, not that there was anything wrong with that.

“ _You’re_ dating a Muggle girl,” she repeated. “How did you even meet a Muggle girl?”

“The usual way. I go walking in Muggle London a lot, you know. I met her in the, whatchamacallit, one of those places you get the--”

“Coffee shop?”

“Right, yes. She was um, you know, the, um--”

“The barista? She got you the coffee?”

“Yes, that’s it! And we started chatting, and she asked me if I wanted to meet again, and one thing led to another…” Draco shrugged and trailed off. She was still staring at him and frowning, but she didn’t seem to disbelieve his story. Well, she did, but possibly not for the reason she should have been. And she was such a motormouth that his story ended up being easier than he expected, with her filling in most of the blanks herself. He decided to remember everything she said so that he could have a frame of reference later with his parents if necessary. A pensieve wouldn’t go remiss, actually.

“I see,” she said very slowly. “Where is this coffee shop?”

 _Fuck!_ “Um, it’s around London somewhere?” he said, stalling for time. He forced himself not to rub his neck or his chin, which was his tell. It was really difficult. His chin suddenly felt very itchy.

“I guess you wouldn’t be familiar with London anyway,” she said, nodding.

“Right, yes. Honestly, I had no idea where I was going.”

“And you’ve been dating for how long?”

“Er, for some months now,” he said vaguely as he thought rapidly. Long enough for him to want to rebel against his parents. Yes, that was believable.

“Draco Malfoy is dating a Muggle,” she said, throwing her head back and closing her eyes. “I must be dreaming.”

“I’m not joking here. It’s true.” That really wasn’t lying. This wasn’t a joke to him (payback never was), and _that_ statement was the truth. Lying was best when you stayed as close to the truth as possible.

“I see. So your father isn’t pleased.”

“Oh, understatement of the century!” Draco said, which was also the truth. When had his father ever been pleased with anything? His father only understood the concept of _more_ , and not _less is more_. Just _more._ As far as Draco could tell, nothing he was ever going to do was ever going to be enough for his father. His father had been so good as a high-ranking consultant at the Ministry simply because he excelled at fault-finding and pinpointing things that could be better. This trait sucked a lot more when it was focused on one's son, whose every effort had only ever been adequate, with greatness a distant piddling impossibility.

Draco was done being criticized for adequacy. He got sort of angry now just thinking about the unfairness of it--again, this anger reflex was ingrained into him from an early age, and nothing he could do was able to channel the calmness of his mother. Possibly he would have done much better to emulate his mother than his father, although, granted, both of them were hard to please.

“You mentioned a boat?” Granger was saying.

“Well, my father isn’t pleased, obviously, and he came after me. You know, he sent an empty note via owl, and then followed it by broom.” Draco thought adding this gave his story great authenticity.

“Yeah, those damned owls,” she said, surprising him by swearing. He raised his eyebrows and found that the movement didn’t tear at his skin. “So you jumped ship? You swam here?” she asked.

“Apparated off the yacht,” he corrected.

Now her eyebrows were sky high. “From the Mediterranean? Over _water_? Have you ever been in Egypt before?”

“No,” he said, unable to help a bit of smirking. He was right proud of how he was able to accomplish that bit of travel. Inbred pureblood weakness, his pale arse.

“Needs must, I suppose. Although you were lucky not to have splinched yourself. ”

Draco scowled. “Couldn’t you just have complimented me there, Granger? Wasn’t that a fairly decent piece of blind apparation, and _over water_?”

“How come you didn’t apparate somewhere else?” Granger was asking. “If you really wanted to do such a risky apparation, surely you could have gone somewhere close by, like Italy or somewhere at least you’re familiar with. Familiar places have a wider apparation range.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. Damned Granger anyway. Always around to one-up his intelligence. “I didn’t think of it, all right? He was advancing on me and Blaise and I had been discussing the closest beach.”

“It’s okay, Malfoy. You did really well,” she said, and his jaw almost hit the ground. Words he never thought Granger would say to anybody, least of all him. “I mean, you’re standing up to your father. That’s impressive. And over a _Muggle._ I still can’t believe it.” She shook her head.

Well, it sort of was the truth. He _was_ standing up to his father over a Muggle. Whether or not the Muggle was a real person was kind of moot at this point to any of the people involved through his story.

“What will your father do?” she was asking.

“Lock me up until I change my mind?” he theorized. “I don't know.”

“That sucks,” she sympathized.

“I don't need pity. I need a wand.”

“It's not pity,” she said. “It's just… Well, it must suck to not have parents who support you.”

He narrowed his eyes. Even though he was pretty angry at his parents, it still didn’t sit right for anyone to criticize them, and he started to put her straight. Except it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t without contradicting everything that he had just said and ruin the chances of her helping him. He couldn't afford to go off on her like that as he had earlier. Besides which, apologies were hell. His mouth snapped shut.

She glanced at him quickly for a moment before backstepping. “I mean, not that they don’t love you or whatever. Sucks that they have such, erm, strong ideas about what’s right for you.” She was being surprisingly tactful and civil, even despite their detente.

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. Although, what do you know about such things? It’s not like you had parents who tried to tell you what to do or how to be.” He remembered her parents, those wide-eyed Muggles, gazing all around them, but very obviously proud of their daughter. Of course, it wouldn't have been hard to impress _them_. Try impressing a entire family tree of hard-to-please Purebloods, bred and groomed to not be impressed with anything but the state of their own cuticles.

“I don't, I guess,” she said and paused for a long moment so that he was forced to look at her. “But Harry's aunt and uncle treated him like rubbish, and they were the only parents he had ever known. They locked him in a cupboard under the stairs and he always went hungry,” she said, eyes going all soft.

For the first time in his life, he was confronted with the strangeness of discussing Harry Potter with Hermione Granger and nobody getting angry about it. Obviously, he couldn't get angry because he needed her help. But stranger still was that from the look in Granger's eyes, it appeared as though she was equating him with Potter as opposed to defending Potter against him. Huh. What an interesting feeling that was. Maybe channeling his mother's diplomacy was a better tactic than even he had thought.

“He had nobody, you know. When we went on the hunt for the horcruxes, it was just the two of us.” Then Granger looked embarrassed at this revelation and cleared her throat.

Draco realized she had said more than she intended, but it was quite telling that she was a bleeding heart, and he had never realized. She hadn't befriended the famous scar-face because she had wanted to share in his fame or to make an alliance, as he himself had intended to do (in order to impress his father--Circe take it, everything in his life went round and round in a circle). Sure, he thought she must've been with those two losers because she felt sorry for them, but he had thought she felt sorry for them because of their intellectual incapacity and physical ugliness, not because of some sad sob story.

It surprised him to know that she might actually be a good person, and that her trying to help people in her really annoying know-it-all manner was her way of showing how she cared, not to show off, as he had believed. Well, that was interesting. You learned something new every day. Furthermore, it was information that would come in handy if he needed additional help from her. Pulling at her heartstrings was definitely easier than appealing to her Ministry position, which seemed to just set her back up.

“I’ll definitely help you,” she was now saying, straightening up and getting a gleam in her eyes that alarmed him. He had seen that gleam in her eyes before, the most memorable time being right before she smacked him in the face third year, which, now he thought about it, was also over him criticizing someone to her. He leaned as far back as he could without actually walking backwards. That time, he had been yukking it up with his friends and hadn’t even been looking, which was the only way she could have been able to do what she did, dammitall. He wasn't some stupid wet blouse.

“Look,” he said uneasily. “I don’t need your help with my situation. Just, well, just with my current wandlessness. Not that I’m not grateful,” he tacked on hastily. No need to antagonize her just when he had put so much effort in appeasing her.

“Right, that’s what I meant,” she said, swiping a finger under her nose. He eyed her warily. Was she getting weepy over his tale of forbidden love? He hoped not. “Draco Malfoy with a Muggle. God, I can’t believe it. Anything can be possible now.”

“I'm not Aunt Bella,” Draco said testily. Her very delight was annoying.

“You used to call me Mudblood,” Granger reminded him.

She wasn't wrong, but this was a topic that set his back up every time. “Imagine your parents being completely against something like, I don't know, _juggling_ , for example. Telling you how terrible it was, each and every time someone came around who juggled.”

Granger looked thoughtful. “Like Harry's relatives.”

Draco growled. “No, not like those m--not like that. Like if they also loved you and told you you were their shining hope and compared you to other kids by telling you how wonderful you were for not juggling and how they were so glad you didn't turn out to be those other kids who were jugglers or who came from a family of jugglers. Like if they rewarded you every time you exhibited the right behavior and were disappointed when you didn't agree with them.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth and he could have bitten his tongue off because he had only meant to argue that not everyone grew up hating their only living relatives like Harry Potter, not to talk about how his parents had trained him into this Pureblood rhetoric.

Granger was silent for a moment. Then, “There’s an experiment a man did once, by ringing a bell every time before he fed his dogs.”

Draco wanted to ask what the feck that had to do with him, but something in Granger's tone made him keep mum.

“Before long, every time he rang the bell, the dogs would salivate, whether or not he fed them.”

There were many times in his life that he wanted Granger to shut up, but not once had he ever thought she didn't know _exactly_ what she was saying. This was one of those times.

Now she was squinting at him in the appraising way she must have when confronted with a particularly interesting bookshelf or whatever she did in her spare time. Or, Merlin forbid, at Ron Weasley. As though she felt she had to take him in hand to figure him out and sort him out. It infuriated him. He wasn't one of her loser friends, he wasn’t one of her pity cases, and he definitely wasn’t some sort of hobby. “You don't know me, Granger,” he warned. “We're not friends.”

He felt kind of churlish afterwards, to be honest. He hadn't meant to be so rude about it, since she was his lifeline back to civilization. But he hated that she was thinking she knew him when she didn't. He was special, dammit.

“We're not,” she agreed, surprisingly. “But that doesn't mean we can't get along.”

Finally she was getting it. “All right then,” he said, and then something prompted him to stretch out his hand. He could have kicked himself a scant second later for this action that was simply ingrained in him to cement business dealings. But pure Malfoy posturing made him stick it out and not withdraw with an air of awkwardness.

She eyed it for a moment before she took it gingerly and then shook it fully. Her hand felt very small in his and sort of... indefinable, probably because she had always acted so superior that he somehow was expecting man-hands. He withdrew his hand quickly and they both nodded at each other.

“By the way,” she said, throwing him off with another grin. “I liked that metaphor with the juggling.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering if any of my reviewers would be open to doing beta work for a short piece I'm writing for a fest. It's my very first fest, so I put updating on hold until I was finished. It's around 13,000 words and is a Dramione (HEA guaranteed). Please PM if you can! I would be so incredibly appreciative! (Will post next chapter up faster as reward.)


	4. Chapter 4

“You think my parents trained me like a dog?” Draco scoffed as they walked back to join the others.

“No, I don't think they mean to. But parents put a lot of undue burden on their children to think and act as they do.”

How true. He thought of how, after the war, the papers had printed the story of “unsung heroes,” including his mother's cousins, Sirius and Regulus Black. How he used to stare at Great Aunt Walburga’s wallpaper at the scorch marks. How ironic that both of her sons had turned against the Cause at the end. And yet there was no family more regimented than the Blacks. Boy, that family sure turned out well. A whole slew of Azkaban escapees there. Draco often wondered if perhaps madness ran in his blood, but then he would comfort himself with the knowledge that he resembled his father more than his mother, except for his eyes, that was. Those grey orbs were pure Black.

Anyway, that was neither here nor there, except now Granger was eyeing him in the way he thought she probably eyed Harry Potter, with such a soft expression that she looked exceptionally _girly._ And that was a concept he had applied to Granger precisely only once in his life, before he resolutely labeled her as Off Limits, especially for extracurricular thoughts.

That definitely didn't apply here when she looked very distinctly different from how she had as a schoolgirl. Her hair absolutely was still a disaster, but now it was caught high up in a ponytail that was rather fetching. Not that he thought of her in any sort of flattering light. However, that wasn't a relevant or diplomatic statement to make at this point when he still needed to make use of her. “So you went with Potter to hunt down the horcruxes?” he said, a little curious despite himself.

“Yeah. Lots of camping and no bathroom or shower facilities. Much like this, in fact, except there was less food,” she said, gesturing around them.

“Why did you even come on this trip?” he asked because she was obviously not enamored with their state of being. “I mean, there had to be a faster, better alternative, even for--” Draco hastily changed his wording: “--Muggles.”

She glanced at him in a way that made him realize he really had to mind his _p_ s and _q_ s. “There are. There are planes and cars and trains. There’s also a cruise aboard a luxurious ship for the scenic route. But I opted for the cheaper option.”

“Merlin’s rheumy joints, can't you afford it?”

“I’m saving up,” she said. “I'm trying to buy my own place.”

“Just how much are you making in this Ministry job of yours, anyway?”

“It's perfectly fine for a lower level position,” she said stiffly. “Anyway, my boss sort of wanted me to go on this trip.”

“Why?” he asked. “I mean, you've just said it all. You were with Potter in hunting down horcruxes and I have a hard time believing he could find anything without someone telling him what or where it is, so why do you even have to listen to your boss on this? Who's your boss anyway? It's been almost a decade. I thought you'd be running the show by now.”

“I insisted on following protocol,” she said. “I insisted on working my way from the bottom.”

“That's just idiotic.”

“No, it isn't. It's called earning my position.”

“It _is_ idiotic, because you've already earned it a million times over by being instrumental in ending the war. You don't have to force yourself to work at the bottom of the ladder when any of these idiots know you can do things better than they can. Or maybe you can't, in the things that matter,” he amended, considering that her political grasp of her situation was so poor. Any Slytherin would have leveraged her status post-war into a fast track to the Minister’s office.

“That's so Slytherin of you.”

“Shut up, Granger. You don't know anything about it. Don't say it like it's a bad word, all right? I'm so sick of everyone just badmouthing Slytherin every chance they get when there's supposed to be this interhouse unity. And what the bloody hell is wrong with working within the system and using your connections? That's just how you get ahead, not how you _stay_ ahead.”

She was staring at him as though she had never seen him before.

“What? You think I naturally just got good grades? That I was top of my house because I used my name and connections? I also worked at it, all right? I didn't cheat off anyone on tests or papers, unlike your two friends.”

“All right, that’s enough,” she was saying with narrowed eyes.

“Are you going to tell me Potter and the Weasel didn’t cheat off your papers?”

“Are you telling me that Crabbe and Goyle got their O.W.L.s themselves?” she asked in challenge.

She had a point. “They needed my help,” he defended.

“So did Ron and Harry. Oh, and by the way, they helped put an end to Voldemort.”

“Argh. Whatever--”

“And...did you just compare yourself to me?”

Draco stared at Granger, whose eyebrows were raised in a definite challenge. Seriously, the bint never let up. “ _Back to my original point_ ,” he emphasized to avoid being drawn. “If my name and connections can get me places, I'm not going to turn it down. And when I'm there, I'm going to sodding make them appreciate my work. That's just being smart, not evil.” Although, of course it wasn't like his name or connections meant anything these days although acknowledging that gave him a sour taste in his mouth.

Granger nodded. “You're right,” she said and then laughed. “You're absolutely right.” And she laughed some more.

“Well, you’re finally getting it,” he said, eyeing her. It was the first time she had ever agreed with him and/or laughed in his presence and not at him. It gave him a weird feeling. He tried not to notice how the teeth Pansy had always made fun of as too big were sort of white and straight and looked quite good when she wasn't scowling. It was just interhouse unity affecting him, that was all. He wasn't thinking anything about how she looked--not pretty, exactly, but not heinous like he always maintained--smiling instead of glaring at him like she usually did. That would be ridiculous and gross and the thought never crossed his mind at all.

 

* * *

 

Everyone loaded back into the boat. This time, Malfoy accepted her offer of sunblock and smeared it on himself without a murmur of protest, although he did grimace at the texture. One of the Norwegian women, the one who wasn’t married, offered to help him, and she noticed him smirking in response before feeling Hermione’s eyes on him and then refusing with some quip. She supposed his ability to flirt with the woman showed that he hadn't been lying about dating a Muggle, or at least his ability to do so without foaming at the mouth with hatred. Although what that said about his fidelity was another matter.

They didn’t speak or sit together. Hermione sat at one end of the boat, while Malfoy sat at the back, again with the group of Norwegians. She watched him surreptitiously for the next few hours of sailing, which involved sailing backwards and forward, lots of adjusting of the sails. She still found it hard to believe he was dating a Muggle. He hadn’t said he was in love with her or anything, just that he was dating her. After her first flush of enthusiasm, now Hermione was extremely suspicious. Draco Malfoy dating a Muggle? Standing up to his father over it? It all seemed very unreal.

On the other hand, as she watched him through her sunglasses, it seemed far more plausible than it would have been at, say, Hogwarts. First of all, he hadn't once used the word Mudblood to her. And he seemed just fine functioning without magic, which was strange, to say the least. Even Ron, with his father dabbling with Muggle artifacts since childhood, had no idea what to use and when.

Not that there was much call for technology here in the middle of nowhere, and granted, the felucca experience was one in which there specifically was a lack of technology and comforts. But he didn’t seem to have a problem with any of the people on board, despite the fact they were all Muggles. Malfoy seemed unfazed in general, unless he was just better at faking it, which was also possible, considering he had managed to fool professors and let a horde of killers into a well-guarded school. That gloomy thought sent Hermione on another dark trip down memory lane.

It had been seven years since the end of the war. Hermione had seen neither hair nor hide of Malfoy in all that time. She had gone back to get her N.E.W.T.s, which was an uncomfortable but necessary experience. First of all, she was a year older than all the seventh years and infamous to boot, so there had been quite a lot of nudges and whispers at the start of the year. But once they realized that Hermione was dead serious about getting an education, and not interested in posing for pictures or rehashing gory details of how who died where, as were Neville Longbottom, Daphne Greengrass, and a handful of other students, everyone settled down to a packed school of students.

Malfoy had not been a returning student. Despite it being made clear to all and sundry that his actions during the war were under extreme duress--all substantiated with contributed memories from several witnesses, dead and otherwise, his mother pulled him from the roster of repeating students and placed him in Durmstrang to finish up his course work. Maybe because of his absence, a lot of animosity against him and the results of his actions faded as changes in the Hogwarts administration and curriculum took precedence.

Strangely enough, it was Harry who had been Malfoy's biggest advocate after the war. He had said many things to the effect of Malfoy not being as bad as they thought. She and Ron had dismissed that out of hand, of course, because it was clear with the end of the war that Harry had gone soft. Neither would have said so to his face, considering that if anyone deserved a break from being chased down to be killed, it was Harry Potter. Also, it would've been very difficult for Harry's opinion of Malfoy to go anywhere but up--he had been so obsessed that he had taken to stalking him under his invisibility cloak, after all. It had been quite ridiculous that year, since she had literally run into Harry in the hallway one day, hiding under his cloak and obsessively watching Malfoy. In just about anyone else, she would have taken that information to Professor McGonagall at once.

However, despite Harry’s change of heart, it didn’t seem that Draco’s estimation of her friend had improved any. On the other hand, the points he said were beginning to make a lot of sense. Harry and Ron did spend a lot of time copying from her papers and homework, and they definitely broke rules like there was no tomorrow. Maybe from an outsider’s perspective, such laxity in the school administration towards a couple of students would make anyone incensed at unfair treatment.

Hermione hadn't given Draco Malfoy much thought after Hogwarts, since they had, for all extents and purposes, gone completely separate ways. She supposed that Harry would know more about him than she did, and that Malfoy's actions leading up to the final battle did show a disinclination to back Voldemort. She couldn't forget his screamed orders at Crabbe to not kill them in the Room of Requirement just before the final battle, although his lackey apparently was too thick to understand that memo.  And it was true that, for whatever reason, he had stopped Bellatrix Lestrange that fateful day from completely breaking her down by shakily cutting in with a suggestion to get Griphook from the dungeons.

At the time, with the last of her sanity, she had thought hysterically maybe he and his mother didn't appreciate her muddy blood being spilled all over their rug. Nonetheless, his interruption had been a welcome reprieve. She didn't want to attribute him with sainthood or anything just because he happened to be dating a Muggle now instead of wishing them dead as a collective, but maybe he hadn't been actively lobbying for Hermione's death back then.

There were more far-fetched things, Hermione supposed with an inward shrug. There was the fact that--well, what about the fact that Pansy Parkinson and Ginny were apparently friends now? Given the Slytherin witch's disdain for everything in the world, that had been a minor shocker, despite the innocuous public relations origin of the strange friendship. Apparently, Pansy’s fashion column had quite the following, eager to know what the Chosen One's wife wore on a daily basis.

They had all changed, after all. It'd been a while since the war and even the nervous twitches, the crying fits, and the nightmares were fading away. For the most part. They could laugh now and get annoyed at simple things and not feel guilty about all the deaths.

Lucius Malfoy, whatever his son said about his personal beliefs, had donated generously to the recruitment fund at Hogwarts meant solely to ease Muggleborns into their new magical lives. Even if he still wanted to keep his bloodline pure, their family was doing plenty to appease the political climate and keeping their snootiness to a bare minimum.

Hermione looked up from her mulling when they dropped anchor close to an embankment. Mohamed made a brief announcement about their current location and how they would be able to swim there for an hour or so.

The others, minus Hermione and Malfoy, were already stripping off their outer clothes to reveal they had been prepared for this in their itinerary. Malfoy was lying back on his elbows, surveying the others with a mild disdainful look on his face, really, his signature look. For a second, Hermione had qualms about stripping off in front of _him_ in particular, but then shrugged and started to unbutton her shirt.

She nearly stopped when Malfoy turned towards her with a very interested expression.

“Shut up,” she told him preemptively as she resolutely continued to disrobe.

“Why, Granger,” he drawled with an awful leer. “I haven't said a word.”

Really, there was no reason for him to leer at all. Her swimsuit was not revealing in the slightest. In fact, she was wearing--

“You have got to be kidding me,” Malfoy snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “ _That's_ your swimsuit?”

Hermione lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“You're wearing more than you were a moment ago!” he said. “Why aren't you dressed like them?” Malfoy gestured to the other women of their group already in the water, all who were wearing two pieces.

“I find rashguards to be more practical,” Hermione said. “Aside from the sun protection, it also prevents loss of body heat in water that varies too much in temperature…” She eyed him warily as he made his way across the rocking boat to her.

“I don't know if you realized this,” he began almost innocuously and then glanced around to check if others were nearby, “but you're a bloody witch! You can do warming charms. Hell, you can breathe underwater if you wished!”

“That is no reason to be unprepared,” Hermione replied and gazed at him up and down. “Do--do you want to swim as well?”

“Yes, but I'd prefer not to get my only clothes wet,” he said dryly.

“I can transfigure something for you,” she said.

Malfoy looked tempted for a brief second and then shook his head. “Maybe you can lend me your wand and I'll do my own transfiguring,” he said instead.

Hermione snorted. “You must be delusional. If I did that, then you would apparate out of here and leave me stranded.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

She shot him a look. “How dumb do you think I am, Malfoy?”

“You don't know my measurements,” he said sulkily, although he kept glancing over the side of the boat to the other passengers frolicking in the water.

She glanced at him up and down. “Oh, I think I can venture a guess. Boys’ sizes, maybe?” she said innocently.

“Sod off, Granger,” he scowled. “I'm all man.”

She beckoned him closer. He eyed her suspiciously.

She sighed. “Do you _want_ me to break the statute of secrecy?”

“I wouldn't mind it if you got caught, no,” he grumbled and sat down next to her.

They pretended to examine something in her bag while she yanked his belted waistband towards her. He yelped as she dug part of her wand into his side.

“Sorry, I can't see very well--”

“You're transfiguring my smalls, not trying to cut out my kidney!” he hissed.

“Stop moving around!” she gritted and murmured the incantation. With a sigh, she shoved him away. “It's done. This really isn't in my job description, you know.”

Malfoy had risen to his feet, pulled his shirt out of his pants, and was unbuckling his belt very slowly. She eyed him narrowly.

“Could you move farther off?” she said. “Stop unbuckling in front--Look, you're right in front of me. Your pants are at eye level. We look--unseemly. Suspicious,” she corrected as he smirked. “Shut up.”

“Just checking to see that you haven't given me whatever you're wearing as well,” he said, looking down into his pants.

She rolled her eyes. “All right. Just take off your clothes and stop examining your bits in front of me. It's creeping me out.”

He shrugged and began unbuttoning his shirt. Then, with his belt unbuckled, he took off his shoes, socks, and then unzipped his pants. “I need a towel too.”

Hermione transfigured a tissue paper in her bag into a towel and pulled it out before tossing it to him. “Here.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“Well, you're all dressed up to live underwater for an extended period. Aren't you going to jump in?”

“Erm,” Hermione said, standing up to seal her bag. “I'll, you know, do some brief exercises before jumping in. To prevent injury.”

Malfoy gently took her bag from her and tucked it under the seat. Then, before she could do anything but utter several undignified screeches, he had her in the air, one arm under her knees, the other around her waist, and then he threw her into the water before jumping in himself.

When she came up for air, she was sputtering and trying to find him to dunk him under, but he evaded her, laughing as he did so.

“That's very dangerous, Malfoy!” she yelled across the water at him. “I could have drowned!”

“You should have practiced your wandless underwater spells before you came on this trip then,” he mock-whispered and said something under his breath. Hermione watched as a thin filmy layer seemed to hover over his face. “See, Granger? It's a better version of the bubblehead charm, isn't it? Good to know there are some things you don't know!”

“Bastard,” Hermione muttered under her breath as he dove under the water and didn't surface until he was well away from her.

“Well, I was betting you two were really boyfriend/girlfriend in a snit, but probably not, huh?” Priya was saying to a Hermione treading water by the boat.

Hermione snorted. “Oh, _most_ definitely not. I cannot emphasize it enough without using expletives.”

Priya laughed. “Just flirting coworkers, then?”

“No, he doesn't work. He's a layabout.”

“Is that like a, I don't know, loser who just stays at home?” Priya asked. “He doesn't look the type.”

“No, well, he's a _rich_ layabout.”

“Oh, a trust fund baby,” Priya said.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you certainly strike sparks off one another. It's like seeing two teenagers flirt. Amusing and painful at the same time.”

Hermione tried to laugh it off. “No, it's genuine hatred and disdain. We've known each other for ages.”

With some shock, Hermione realized this was true--she and Malfoy went _way_ back. How grotesque. And how disgusting that people thought they were flirting. Honestly!

“There seem to be a lot of chemistry. Are you sure you don't want a piece of that?”

“Oh, I could not be more definite about it,” Hermione replied emphatically.

“Just checking,” Priya drew out her words. “That's too bad. He's pretty hot.”

“He looks like an albino,” Hermione blurted out, but turned with Priya to glance as Malfoy surfaced and flipped his hair back. He was laughing, and Hermione gazed at him with some bemusement as he chatted to Sarah. She very seldom saw him laugh. They weren't friends, after all. The most familiar expression to her was his sneer, although she did have great memories of an even better expression--that of her palmprint on the side of his face.

“You really have grown up together,” Priya said with raised eyebrows. “So, you didn't notice the body? Color notwithstanding. And I sort of dig the tattoo.”

Hermione couldn't stop herself before a rude noise came out of her nose. Priya laughed and changed the subject. She found her eyes drifting back to Malfoy, whose Dark Mark that she had found revolting for half of her life took on a different appearance in the eyes of a Muggle.

She hadn't looked before, but, well, she was looking now.

Dammit.

They dried off readily in the dry Egyptian air, and lifted anchor to continue on their way. The sun began to set as they made their way to Cairo.

The meal this time was had around a great bonfire in an oft-used bricked-up pit. Mohamed and Mo worked to clear out the pit of the ashes and dumped it further up among the reeds. Many of the others had spread their sleeping bags on the beach. Hermione saw that Malfoy was looking unconcerned and marveled at his ability to look completely aloof and disdainful when he probably was wondering what to do about it all. All at once, she realized that, like her other acquaintances, this was Draco Malfoy's way of dealing with unknown quantities: with a lot of posturing. Except he did it with posturing so good that most people felt automatically cowed by his upper class demeanor. 

“Hey, Malfoy,” she called, unable to help but take pity on him. “You're with me.”

It was too much to ask for a little overt show of gratitude. All the man did was elevate two eyebrows and amble his way over to her.

“Yes?” he had the nerve to drawl.

“Here,” she said, pulling an already transfigured sleeping bag out of her “backpack,” which was really her super extended purse.

On her other side, Priya said, “Wow, you are really great at packing. That backpack doesn't even look like it could fit two sleeping bags.”

“These are really expensive sleeping bags,” said Malfoy at the same time Hermione said, “It's an acquired skill.” They looked at each other and both busied themselves with arranging the sleeping bags.

“Ali and I are going to take a minibus into town later tonight. Do you two want to come with?” Priya asked.

“Erm,” Hermione said. If she had been by herself, she would have very much wanted to go. Instead, however, she had a hanger-on in the form of a bedraggled blond Malfoy and she felt a nagging sense of responsibility for him. Unfortunately, taking care of clueless males had clearly become a habit of hers. “Maybe in Luxor?” she ventured.

Priya smiled in response, not much perturbed by the refusal.

Not so Malfoy. When Priya turned away, he hissed, “I want to go into town!”

“We _will_ ,” she hissed back. “But the minibus will take forever. We are going to take a more direct route and find you a wand elsewhere.” She wanted to add, “Obviously,” but it was pretty much implied already.

“Fine,” Malfoy replied, just as full of attitude as ever.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

After dinner, everyone made their way in separate directions. The Mochiyamas, the consummate travelling professionals, had already been picked up by their prearranged ride. The Nordic trio got in a bit more midnight swimming. They really had good rapport, the three of them. Once Priya and Ali had gone off, Hermione turned to Malfoy and without speaking, they rose and walked along the rocky path away from the campsite.

“That Lars,” Malfoy snorted.

“He's really good-natured, isn't he?” agreed Hermione. “Most men don't want a third wheel when they're off with their wife somewhere.”

“Er, you've got the wrong end of the stick there,” Malfoy smirked. “I'd say he had a _really_ good thing going.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, c’mon, Granger, surely you can't be that thick. He's getting it with both of them.”

“No!” she said, stopping in her tracks to stare at him.

“What, you couldn't tell?” he sighed. “So, really just a swot and no life experience. Surely, you and Potter and the Weasel…” he trailed off suggestively.

“No,” Hermione barked. “Stop right there.”

“Didn't you go camping with them for all of seventh year?” he asked, with a very meaningful look on his face.

“We were searching for _horcruxes_ ,” she bit out. “It was extremely perilous and very unpleasant.”

“Not even a wee bit of naughtiness?” he pushed.

“ _No_ ,” Hermione shut off that line of inquiry.

“It's probably for the best. Being double-teamed by those two would scare any bird off men forever.”

“How can you be this disgusting when you're in a committed relationship?” Hermione demanded.

He didn't reply for so long that she thought he wasn't going to say anything. There was no time for it anyway because they had reached a copse of trees and Hermione apparated them into town as soon as they were out of sight of the campsite.

They landed in an alley inside _Haqqapa Souq_ , the Egyptian wizarding center in Cairo. It was a much smaller village than _Hathriba_ , which was the main street in Luxor, the ancient wizarding capital.

“Here we are,” Hermione said, and pulled out a head covering before wrapping it around her head. She eyed Malfoy and then after a second, pulled out a second scarf for him.

“What's this?”

“Both Egyptian Muggles and wizards hold quite a bit of animosity towards Great Britain. It seems that English wizards followed in the footsteps of Muggles and took away a great many magical artifacts and angered the country a lot.”

“Ah. Right.” Malfoy adjusted the folds of the scarf about him, loosely covering his head. “Like this?”

He looked like he was born wearing it. She wondered if all those years of wearing Hogwarts scarves had given him a natural flair for it. Still, none of the Gryffindors displayed quite as much style as he did. She surveyed him for a moment and shook her head, hiding a small smile.

“What?” he asked irritably.

“Far be it from me to indulge your vanity, but how you can haphazardly throw on a scarf and look so presentable is definitely a mystery to me,” she said, before walking ahead.

Her comment stopped him dead in his tracks. After a moment, she heard him stumble after her.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“You heard.”

“Granger, did you just pay me a compliment? An honest to goodness compliment? Albeit somewhat backhanded.”

“It's not in me to give compliments,” she said, ignoring his muttered, “It sure isn't.” “But you know you have a quite a bit of style.”

In the next moment, she was rolling her eyes and recalling just why she hated being pleasant to him. The git had no notion of humility, unlike her friends.

He smirked and said, “Naturally it beats what you're used to with those peasants you call friends.”

“Must you do that?” she complained. “Must you follow every other comment up with a dig at my friends? It gets old, Malfoy, it really does.”

“Habit, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “Fine, what should we talk about? The weather?”

“We could _not_ talk.”

“Tell me this place then. Surely you know more about this place than most books.”

Remembering how impatient her friends always got when she started reciting information, she gave a very brief introduction of the different shops in _Haqqapa Souq._

“That's it?” he asked, as they stopped to let a few camels walk past. “What does _Haqqapa_ mean?”

She eyed him in surprise. “It means ‘from the soul of Ptah,’ who was one of the most revered ancient deities. Even older than Osiris or Set or any of the ones we associate with Egypt.”

He smirked at her.

“What?”

“See, you knew more than what you were letting on. Doesn't it feel good to get it out?”

“You really wanted to know?” she asked cautiously.

Malfoy shrugged. “We're here, aren't we? Why wouldn't I want to know more about the history and etymology of this place?”

Hermione blinked. Good question. That was what she often asked herself and why she spent so much time reading and researching before going anywhere. Still, that was a question that occurred to precisely none of her friends.

She chatted at length about the history of some of the shops in the _souq_ and instead of rolling his eyes, Malfoy appeared to actually be listening. Until they rounded a corner and saw a group of figures dressed in white robes and what looked like white sacks with eye holes cut out on their heads. It sent a shiver up her spine and she stopped cold.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Not Death Eaters,” Malfoy said next to her, sounding remarkably calm. “Our masks were nicer.”

His comment had the intended effect of making her frown at him. “How lovely,” she scowled. “What are they saying?”

“I don't speak Arabic,” he started to say and then cocked his head to the side to listen. “They are the _Sons of Horus_. They will take back the darkness and restore the crown. Et cetera.”

“What language was that?” she asked.

“Latin,” he said after giving it a moment’s thought.

“I don’t want to get caught up in that group. Let’s go down this alley,” Hermione said uneasily and he followed after her.

They rounded a bend and came to a side street that stretched on either side. “Which way?” Hermione asked. “And, what do you think that was about?”

He shrugged. “All I know of Horus is from what Binns went on about in class. I’m betting it has nothing to do with current events, given that Binns was dead and pretty out of it.”

“It really was quite atrocious that that class hasn’t been updated in fifty years.”

“They should get someone more qualified. Someone who’s got the newest edition of the textbook, for example, which would have been extremely helpful,” he added.

“I know!” Hermione said. “Don’t get me started on that. _And_ the textbooks could really stand to be updated more often than twice a century. In the Muggle world, there’s also a much better filing system for reference books as well. Why hasn’t the wizarding world started using computers? Does your girlfriend use a cell phone?” she asked.

“Ah,” he replied and scratched at a spot under his bottom lip. “Can we go in there?” he asked, pointing at a spice shop and distracting her.

“Er, okay. You know what I need to get actually? We need more toilet paper.”

He grimaced. “Granger, we don't have that kind of relationship. Kindly keep this information to yourself.”

“In case you hadn't noticed,” she said with a hand on her hip. “There's no toilet on board. Eventually, given the amount of beans in the Egyptian diet, even you'll need to go.”

“No,” he said. “Malfoys don't go in the wild.”

“Do Malfoys prefer to be constipated?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“You're kidding me. You would prefer a serious medical condition to squatting in the bushes?”

He appeared to give it a moment's thought. “Yes. I can get my bowels looked at after I return to civilization.”

“Have you never gone camping before?” she asked with exasperation.

“Yes, of course. Every Quidditch World Cup.”

“That's an organized event! With extended tents--”

“Castle,” he corrected.

“What?”

“My family has a series of tents magicked to resemble each of our homes. My mum always preferred the summer castle in Switzerland. Well, most of the real thing is in ruins, but it's very roomy for all that. That's the tent we take now to the Quidditch World Cup. My mum doesn't even come out for the game.”

 

She thought her eyes would be sprained from her eye roll. “ _That's_ your definition of camping?”

“All right, fine. When I was young, Theo, Crabbe, Goyle and I would borrow one of my father's lesser tents and pitch it in one of the ballrooms. I'm guessing that doesn't count either according to you.”

Hermione shook her head. “What does that mean, _lesser_ tent?”

“You know. The ones that only have one storey. Smaller. _Lesser._ ”

“Seriously, Malfoy?” she exclaimed. “How did you expect to survive this trip?”

“Well, I _am_ with the swot of the year.”

“Wow. I didn't know you had so much faith in me,” she said.

“I figure if you could keep Potter alive with a megalomaniac after him and with his death wish, I'm child's play to you.”

“There's a compliment in there somewhere under the dig at Harry, but we'll hurt ourselves trying to find it. All right, there was no wand shop here last time, but that might have changed,” she said, pulling at his sleeve. “Let's look down this street.”

“Normally I would disengage your fingers immediately,” he drawled. “But this shirt was bound for the trash heap anyway.”

She dropped his sleeve at once and set her jaw. They had been getting along so strangely well that she had started to treat him as she would any of her friends, hence, pulling at his arm. His comment was like a slap in the face. “Thanks, Malfoy. Prejudiced to the last,” she snapped out and turned to march ahead of him. It was good that he had reminded her just how despicable he was.

“What the hell is your problem?” he said from behind her in an annoyed tone of voice.

“I'm trying to be civil and you just had to turn around and insult my blood status. _Real_ nice, Malfoy.” She was practically stomping. He was lucky she didn’t just apparate off and leave him stranded. The little cockroach.

“When did I insult you? Cripes, you are the most antagonistic twit I've ever met. It must be an overload of books because--”

“You said I'll dirty your shirt!” The words flew out of her mouth and she shot a glance back at him.

His jaw had dropped open and his eyes flickered and then narrowed. “Granger, you are an absolutely oversensitive, _blithering_ idiot. I _said_ I don't allow people to tug at my shirt, and I don't. Do you know how expensive my shirts are? This one, for example, is-- _was_ woven from a single hair from a seven-tailed fox. However, since it has been irreparably soiled beyond redemption, I'll make an exception for your uncouth ways such as pulling at my sleeve and ruining its lines forever.”

They stared at each other. His gaze was challenging. Her eyes fell away first. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“What was that?” he taunted, leaning his head towards her.

 

“I said I'm sorry!” she yelled suddenly, making him pull back with a wince. “Sorry,” she repeated in a more moderate tone. “I thought you were making another comment about…” She made a rolling gesture of her hand to encompass a whole list of things he used to criticize. Really, she didn't know _why_ she was the one apologizing here. Shouldn't he be the one to apologize, since he was in _her_ debt? She scowled and crossed her arms across her chest.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the scarf thrown over his head. “Salazar’s sodding snake, Granger. I sure did a number on you in school, didn't I?”

“No,” she said immediately and hated how defensive she sounded. And then, because he sounded more tired than snarky, “Fine. Maybe.”

“You're more defensive than my godfather was,” Malfoy said. “And I respected the man, but he was undoubtedly the most defensive person in the world. He should have been DADA professor from the start, his defenses were so strong.”

“That's because he lost the woman he loved most in the world,” Hermione explained.

“My mother?” he said, screwing his face up like he had smelled something disgusting.

“No. Lily Evans,” she corrected.

He looked blank. “Who's that?”

“Harry's mum,” she said and bit her lip. She was being incredibly indiscreet and to a person who had once fed Rita Skeeter a ton of lies. Another scowl worked its way across her face.

He looked as though he were about to choke. “Harry--Potter's mum? Wait. The _Mudblood_?!”

 

She glared at him. Seriously, he was never going to change.

 

“This makes so much sense!” he hooted and placed one hand over the bottom half of his face, the other on his hip. “Is that why he hated Potter so much?”

“Maybe,” she said sourly, still not forgiving him for his slur.

“Wait a minute. Then why did he make the Unbreakable Vow with my mother to protect me? No, he must've fancied my mum something rotten.”

“He did _that_ because Dumbledore asked him to protect you in exchange for vengeance on Voldemort. For killing Lily Evans. Harry's mum.”

“Whoa,” he said softly. “I almost can't believe it, but this explains so much. I can't believe so many people asked him to protect me. He sort of had a raw deal. It's not up to him to be my protector.”

“Yeah. It wasn't very fair of Dumbledore.”

“That explains his posthumous Order of Merlin, I guess. I mean, none of the other Death Eaters killed by _him_ got one of those. I did wonder.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But you're forbidden to bring this up to anyone. In fact,” she said and as he turned to her with questioning eyes, she cast a charm over him.

Now he was the one scowling. “What the hell did you do to me?”

“Prevented you from blabbing your mouth off to Skeeter,” she said.

“I wouldn't have said anything,” he said, still looking annoyed.

“Oh really? Sort of like how you kept her informed of all those lies in school?” Hermione said, lifting her brows.

“You’re just guessing,” Malfoy smirked. “You know, you can't pin _everything_ that's gone wrong in your life on me.”

“In this case, I have hard evidence straight from the, er, beetle’s mouth that it was you, Malfoy.”

His brows drew together. “Beetle? All right, fine, so somehow you got it out of her. She was going to badmouth Potter anyway.”

“Well, this time neither of you is going to get that chance,” she said firmly.

He shot her a sideways look. “What's the deal with you and Potter anyway? Are you in love with him? You're obsessed with the bloke. Every other word out of your mouth is about him.”

“I'm not obsessed with him,” she denied.

“All right, then, what's the deal with you constantly looking out for him? Are you his surrogate mother or something? Because, news flash, the war's over. He's a big-time Auror now and doesn't need your help.”

Hermione opened her mouth to blast him and then realized that he hadn't uttered a single line that was an insult. “I guess it must've been because he was my first friend at Hogwarts,” she said a bit sheepishly. “And not only that, he saved my life first year.” She had held onto this mentality into adulthood. Back then, she would have given anything for a friend, and he was the only one who wanted the position. And then when it turned out he was the Savior of the wizarding world, it just seemed like the done thing to be there for him in whatever capacity he needed. “It also just so happened that I had read about him before going to school, too.”

“Hero worship, Granger?” Malfoy mocked and she flushed.

“He's just a friend.”

“But you wanted something more?” he prompted.

Hermione considered it. “I don't think so. He never thought of me that way, and I don't think…” She trailed off. A horrific thought hit her--she had never done the choosing before in her romantic life. Viktor had liked her and asked her out. Ron had liked her and asked her out. Had she liked Harry, maybe just a little? But she had been so insecure and slow to develop hormonally that she had never wanted to put herself out there in the first place.

“Hmm,” Malfoy was saying. “Deep ruminations there, Granger. Your hair is about to catch on fire.”

She ducked her head and tried to shrug nonchalantly. “You've certainly given me food for thought,” she replied in what she thought was a mysterious way.

“So it was the three of you seventh year, yeah? You, Potter, and the Weasel? Did you ever think of ditching the third wheel?”

“Er, actually,” she said and then paused for a bit. “Ron--he...we had a huge falling out and he left us. We couldn’t afford to stay there until he came back so it was just the two of us for a long time.”

“So Weasley ditched _you_? He must have wised up to his role in the whole enterprise.” Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “We all thought you and Harry would end up together anyway.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and my mates in Slytherin. Just seemed like Harry was--well, of the two, despite the scarred up face and the four eyes, he seemed to be savior of Britain and all, so the better catch.”

“It never developed, I guess.”

“Apparently not, if Potter couldn’t make use of the time you two were alone on the run to do anything.”

“He was with Ginny. Well, his heart was.”

“That ginger?!” Malfoy said with incredulity. “Well, fine, I understand some blokes found her attractive.”

“Yes, Harry does attract the good-looking ones.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Granger, but he’s barmy to pick her over you,” he said definitively.

“Really? Despite my, er, ‘beaver resemblance and bushy head’?”

He had the sensibility to flush at that. “Well, you don’t resemble a beaver anymore, now, do you?”

“A stellar recommendation,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Can I have that in writing? For the next man I date, that is.”

“Look, power is power. You’re clearly twice the witch that ginger is. And she's quite muscular for a woman.” He gave a little shudder.

She eyed him uneasily. “Thanks. I guess. I’m disturbed by that discrimination even though you didn’t utter a word on blood status, and quite frankly, your other views on women are also a bit worrying.”

“It’s just--never mind, Granger. You’re clearly trying to take offense at everything I say, so I’m not going to pander to your lack of self-esteem anymore.”

“I don’t have a self-esteem issue.”

“Don’t you?” he scoffed. “Then why can’t you stand up for yourself at work?”

“Back to that again,” she scowled.

“We do seem to have a limited number of conversational topics. But, look, do you like your job or not?”

“Parts of it are quite boring, but it’s making a difference in the long run. The very long run, at times, but still.”

“What did you think you would be doing?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, I knew S.P.E.W. was a dismal failure--”

“What was that? SPW? What is that?”

“S.P. _E._ W. Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

“Is that a real thing? Because no wonder I haven't heard of it if that's the name of the association. Talk about a complete and utter turn-off. And what did you do there? Give the house elves more work like they want?”

“No, _less_ ,” she said, glaring at him. “They’re clearly overworked and deserve to get paid.”

“Granger, are you at all familiar with the background of house elves and their biology? Do you not realize that elves thrive in a community of work, where they imprint on a household, with the work given to them an actual, substantial source of power and nutrient for them? And that if deprived of such a community, they go into a swift decline?”

“I’m sure that’s just a theory _very conveniently_ espoused by wizards--”

“Says the woman who only found out she was a witch at eleven,” he cut in with a snort of derision.

“ _Baksheesh_?” someone said  to them.

Both Hermione and Malfoy turned to look at the man. He looked at the two of them and began mumbling. Hermione shrugged and smiled helplessly. Then the stranger turned to her and said in fragmented English, “The Sons of Horus will take power from women.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione said, startled.

“Resist. Resist their lure,” the man said and then vanished away in a puff of smoke.

Hermione and Malfoy blinked at each other.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Malfoy demanded.

“Er...oh, you mean the soliciting by the political groups? I think if we stay out of the way, it should be fine. And mostly we will, if you return home and I get back to my Nile trip.”

“No, not _that._ The smoke, Granger. He vanished in a cloud of smoke.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t look like apparation--oh! I know. They don’t use floos here. They travel by lamps. They rub the lamps, and they travel through the smoke.”

Malfoy stared at her and she looked back at him with a shrug before he made a cutting gesture with his hand.  “Granger. Granger! Are you telling me we could smoke or lamp out of here? Let’s find someone to help me do that!”

“You’re right,” she said, eyes wide. “We’ve spent too much time arguing.”

“How about magic carpets?” he asked, now getting quite excited.

“Malfoy, I definitely do _not_ have enough money to buy a magic carpet off the cuff.”

“I do,” he said. “Well, in my bank account. Quick. Let’s find the nearest bank.”

“It's going on midnight!” Hermione realized with a squawk after checking her watch. “Malfoy, we've spent the last hour or so walking around and chatting and exchanging insults! Dammit, Malfoy!”

He let out a sputter of air. “You're blaming _that_ on me?”

“The shops here are open so late that I didn't realize how late it was. But it looks like a lot of them close at midnight. See, that store just put up its shutters.” They watched as a few more stores started to close for the night.

“Let's find a bank _now_ ,” Malfoy said, jerking his head towards the road back to the city centre.

They made their way through the dirt paths, looking left and right for a bank until they found a town bulletin board with a convenient map.

“Two right turns and a left. Let's go,” he said, walking far more swiftly than he had all evening. She stumbled after him.

After a few minutes, they were standing in front of the bank, which was, naturally, closed.

“I thought goblins never slept,” Malfoy grumbled. “What time do they open in the morning?”

Hermione read the sign to the side of the steps. “Six in the morning.”

“If I can withdraw money, then I'll stay here,” Malfoy said. “ _Someone_ is bound to let me buy a wand off them. And then I’ll be able to pay someone to show me the way to a lamp or whatever the hell they use here. They’ve got to have broomsticks too, along with their carpets.”

“I need to go back to the boat regardless,” Hermione said. “If you just leave like this, they're bound to wonder. I need to be on hand if any questions are asked.”

“Right,” he said, eyes going back over the sign as though he could have missed something. “And I'll need to pay you back as well.”

If it hadn't been such a lot of money, Hermione would have waved his offer off. “Right,” she said awkwardly.

“Do you want to head back, then?” Malfoy asked, glancing back at her.

“Er, okay,” she said uncertainly and turned to the stairs.

“Granger,” he said, and she turned back to him with an inquiring expression.

“Thanks,” he said very stiffly, frowning as though this was incredibly difficult for him.

She scowled. “Couldn't you look a little more thankful and happy?”

His brows snapped closer together as he bared his teeth. “Is that better?”

“Oh, I wouldn't have recognized you,” she replied just as sarcastically.

Surprisingly, he laughed. “All right, seriously now. I, er, appreciate your help. And you can expect a favor from me in the future.”

“I helped because it was the right thing to do, Malfoy. Not to winkle a suspicious favor from you. But I'll take it. Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand in a way that was meant to be ironic, but then because he was frowning down at her hand for so long, she had to keep it out to drive in her point.

After a moment, he shook her hand with some gravity. Luckily for him, he didn’t grimace in disgust or wipe his hand on his shirt afterwards. Of course, her hand was monumentally cleaner than his shirt by now. “See you back in England,” he said, after a moment in which she thought he was going to say something else.

Hermione backed a few steps away from him and disapparated to the sight of the serious expression on his face.

She set an alarm for five-thirty in the morning. Malfoy was so certain that he could do anything once he had access to his money, but she couldn't be completely convinced. On the other hand, she had never possessed the amount of money that his family seemed to have. An actual castle in Switzerland. Other lesser properties. Good God. No wonder he was such a humongous prat. No wonder goblins afforded his family better service.

In the morning, she rolled over and shut off her alarm, pulling her wand from under her pillow and stretching. For a moment, she was suddenly back on the camping trip with Ron and Harry. Then, she glanced all around and realized where she was. The empty sleeping bag next to her reminded her of Malfoy.

“Morning,” Priya was saying to her with a yawn. “Where’s your friend?”

“Er,” Hermione said, quickly stashing her wand away. “Maybe he went to relieve himself. I'll go check on him.”

She quickly put away her things, pretending to struggle a bit with stuffing her sleeping bag all the way into her bag for the sake of onlookers. Then she made her way into the same copse of trees and again made small talk with the three Norwegians, who now seemed unnaturally joined at the hip. She scowled at this suspicion thanks entirely to one blond wizard. Then, double checking to make sure no one was around, she apparated to the steps of the bank.

Malfoy was awake and looking exhausted.

“I should have transfigured a blanket for you or something,” she said, feeling guilty.

Malfoy jerked a thumb to indicate a folded and ratty blanket next to him.

“Where'd that come from?” she asked.

“Some Son of Horus attempted to recruit me and gave me this.”

“You sure get recruited a lot by strange cults. Must be the way you look,” she observed.

He glowered at her in response.

“He couldn't have transfigured a cleaner blanket?” she asked. “You even folded it.”

“It's called good housekeeping, Granger. And it came from a ratty tissue paper in his pocket, so this was already a huge improvement. Anyway, I'm almost out of here. I'm not going to get bothered over a night's rest.”

She raised her eyebrows. The Draco Malfoy she once knew made a fuss over everything that didn't go his way. “I'm surprised you're taking this living rough so well.”

He was in the process of finger-combing his hair when he looked up at her. “Granger, you do realize that I _lived_ with an entire horde of Azkaban escapees, not to mention their evil overlord for quite a long time, yes? You learn to take your jollies where you find them. Although I would probably kill for a toothbrush.” He met her eyes. “Kidding. Sort of.”

Hermione rummaged in her bag and tossed him a new toothbrush, which he snatched out of the air before it landed on the ground. “Anything else?”

He looked like he was going to make some sort of sarcastic remark, but the iron bars and the wards surrounding the bank tangibly dropped. Malfoy stood and pushed through the double doors. Hermione, a step behind him, walked in at a more sedate pace. She was busy taking in the very different decor of the bank, which had sandstone walls engraved with all manner of colorful hieroglyphs. She was in the process of trying to decipher one very elaborate mural when she heard from behind her, “There is a three step identification process for any customer not currently in their home country.”

“I've just said I don't have my wand,” Malfoy replied in a testy voice.

“Then you must acquire a new wand and then register it with the British liaison at the Egyptian Ministry in Luxor. Unfortunately, the only wands available since the worldwide shortage due to the incapacitation of two wandmakers are being sold in the capital.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said with grim irony. “Isn’t there another way?”

The goblin surveyed the two of them over his spectacles. “Then as your alleged account is cosigned by your father, we shall require two additional pieces of identification to take the place of your missing wand.”

Hermione didn't miss the irritated sound that came from Malfoy. “What additional identification do you need in lieu of wand identification?” she asked on his behalf.

“The three pieces of identification are as follows: wand, hair, and blood. If requestor is unable to provide any one of the above, then he needs to provide two of the following to replace it: cosigner's wand, bone sample, and bodily sample.”

Hermione exchanged bewildered looks with Malfoy. “I'm sorry, bodily sample?”

Malfoy asked at the same time, “Bone? Just how do you suppose I give a bone sample?”

The goblin tilted his enormous head way back and glared at the both of them down his crooked nose. “Most people bring their wands,” he replied haughtily. “And a bodily sample is self-explanatory. We accept organ sample or for males, semen sample.”

Hermione's mouth dropped open. “Well. That's a first,” she replied.

The goblin seemed to take her levity as insult, because he jerked a thumb very abruptly at the painted pictures on the wall behind him. Hermione had seen many ancient Egyptian wall paintings featuring what many denizens of Great Britain would consider risque. Still, she regarded the images now with elevated eyebrows: In one, a reposed man was laying down while his leg was removed. In another, two men handed over a wand together, which was weighed on a scale against a feather. The picture next to that depicted a man standing while a female knelt before his erect penis, holding a bowl directly below it.

“Er,” was all Hermione found to say, her face flaming. She fervently hoped she wasn't involved in any of these procedures and then wondered if a bank worker would be responsible for assisting with such _extractions_. And honestly, why a female worker? That was so sexist.

Malfoy was too incensed to be embarrassed. “If I had my father's wand, I wouldn't _need_ to be here! The only reason I need a withdrawal is to return _home!_ And I'm certainly not about to slice myself open to get what is rightfully mine!”

“Then we cannot help you,” the goblin replied sourly. “May I also remind you that these procedures are set in place to protect your alleged accounts from traveling wizards. We have a _very_ good record against theft and break-ins. Most are unwilling to cut their bone on the spot. It is a very good deterrent.”

Hermione thought for a moment that perhaps the _imperius_ could be handy at such a time, but Malfoy getting his money here didn't compare with trying to prevail against resurrected evil in using that spell.

“Come on,” Malfoy said to Hermione with a glower.

“Aren't you going to do it?” Hermione asked, running after him as he left the bank.

“The semen and bone sample?”

“Well, you wanted your money, right?”

“Granger, I'm in a foreign country. I'll be damned if I leave a part of my body somewhere that is so decidedly nefarious. There must be another way.”

Hermione checked her watch. “I need to go, Malfoy. They'll be loading the boat right about now.”

“Might as well go with you,” he grumbled.

“You could stay here,” she said. “Blaise knows where you are. He's bound to come looking for you.”

“He doesn't know that I've lost my wand,” he said.

“All right, well then, how about we try again in Luxor? The goblin did say that the only wand shops open are there.”

“Fine,” he said, looking downright disgruntled.

They only made it back in time to hurriedly make it aboard. Hermione claimed that Malfoy had gotten lost, which had earned her a disgusted look from him.

“Dammit,” she said under her breath as she followed him across the plank onto the boat.

“Don't push me in,” he replied. “What's wrong?”

“I just realized we spent much too long talking yesterday. We should have sent an owl, for heaven's sake!”

“To whom?” he asked. He had on his lofty expression again as he surveyed the occupants of the boat. Hermione wondered if that was just how he always looked when uncomfortable.

“To Blaise! He could have found a way to rendezvous with us. And, I don’t know, Harry, maybe.”

“Oh yeah,” he replied after a short pause. After they settled on their seats, he scratched his chin. “To the Blaise suggestion, that is. This trip is really throwing me off my game.”

“No kidding,” she grumbled. “ _And_ I forgot to buy toilet paper!”

“What is your obsession with toilet paper?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “We've been over this. You're a witch! Just _scourgify_ yourself!”

“Toilet paper is better than any charm in that area, believe me, Malfoy. You wouldn't understand.”

By this time, they had fallen into a pattern. He had an open palm out for the bottle of sunblock, and this time he was even complacent enough, or feeling much too exhausted after his sleepless night, to lower his head towards her for her to plop the hat on his head.

“So what did you do last night?” Priya asked them.

“Nothing,” replied a disgruntled Malfoy at the same time Hermione said, “Walked around for a bit.”

“Oh, you didn't go together, right? Because Hermione came back by herself.”

“Right,” Malfoy replied after another pause.

“I never asked. What do you do back in England?” Priya asked them.

Since Malfoy didn’t appear inclined to dignify that with a response, Hermione answered first. “Er, I work in the--public sector. Legal stuff.”

“That's what I plan to do! You're an attorney? Or, no, you call it something different. A barrister? Solicitor?”

“Nothing that high up, I’m afraid. I'm in administration.”

Malfoy snorted at her words and both women swiveled their heads to look at him. “She _could_ be much higher up. If she were better at office politics.”

“Oh, right, I know what that's like,” Priya replied with a laugh. “And you, er, Draco? That's a very unusual name.”

“You know the British,” Draco replied. “If it's not Harry or Ronald, it's obscure names like Draco and Hermione.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a philanthropist,” he smirked while Hermione rolled her eyes.

“More like a misanthropist,” she muttered.

“Which charities?” Priya continued to probe.

“Er. War orphans,” he replied, glancing sideways at Hermione.

“And you met at work?” Priya went on, looking puzzled.

Hermione was certain the woman was just making small talk to while away the hours on the boat, but Malfoy was starting to look suspicious. With their respective jobs (or lack thereof, in Malfoy’s case), their background story should have been more carefully planned. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Since school days, actually,” Hermione said.

“And you just decided to come on this trip together?” Priya had both eyebrows raised.

Hermione opened her mouth to launch into a string of lies, but she was cut off when something began to make a rapid clicking noise.

“Sorry,” Priya said, digging into her bag and backing away from them. “Must be my phone.”

“Interesting choice of ringtone,” Hermione said and then sighed when Priya’s head bobbed away from them. “Saved by the bell.”

Malfoy’s arms were crossed in front of his chest. “That's no phone,” he scowled. “And I thought phones had to be connected to the ground. There’s something up with the woman.”

“It’s called a _cell_ phone. That means you can carry it anywhere with you. Don't be so paranoid,” Hermione said. “The war’s over, remember?”

Priya didn't come near Hermione again until they docked for lunch. Then, as Malfoy was waylaid by the Norwegian trio, Priya pulled her aside.

“Hermione,” the other woman said in a voice so serious Hermione was taken aback.

“What is it?”

“I have to talk to you about your _friend_ , Draco Malfoy. I don't believe he's who he says he is.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gory and graphic scenes in this chapter of a slightly smutty and violent nature, but not between main characters (sorry). Hint: Draco and Hermione witness a fertility ritual. I'm not sure how else to frame it without giving it away. Reader caution advised. Chapter can be skipped if you dislike goriness.

Her reflexes were slower than they used to be. “I’m sorry?” she said.

 

Priya gestured, and her husband stepped forward so that they were standing in front of her. In between them, in the distance, she could see Malfoy laughing with Sofie. He was doing “magic” tricks and making her clap and giggle.

 

“First, let me just say that we are members of the Church of Wiccology,” Priya said.

 

“Wiccology?” Hermione repeated lamely. “I don't know what that is.”

 

“It's a religion borne of the truths of Wicca and Scientology. Both have inherent truths, but not the complete picture. Our founding fathers and mothers believe that there is more to the story than they claim. Thus, Wiccology is devoted to uncovering the  _ truth _ .”

 

“I see,” Hermione said. She wondered if she was about to be indoctrinated for the next two hours.

 

Priya laughed. “Don't worry. We're a very well-funded organization. We're not asking for handouts or anything.  _ He's _ why we're here. Every fledgling member is sent off to track down mythical beings and Ali and I have found ours.”

 

Hermione's heart thudded. “Er--okay…”

 

“It's Malfoy,” Ali said with a bored nod in her direction.

 

“He's not a normal human being,” Priya tacked on excitedly.

 

Hermione looked from Ali to Priya.

 

“It's all in our handbook,” Prius said, handing Hermione a piece of paper. “Here's a printout for you. He fits nearly all of the characteristics on the list.”

 

“Unearthly looks. Unnatural expressions. Faster than normal recovery rates,” Hermione read with a sinking heart. “You know, there's probably a logical explanation to all this.”

 

“No one has hair that fair without having reddish eyes and pinkish skin. No albino can be out in the sun like this.”

 

“I was just kidding with regards to him being albino,” she said weakly. “Also, that’s a false concept with regards to the red eyes. There are a lot of different types of albinism. And honestly, I've always suspected he dyed his hair.”

 

“Nobody has such flawless skin,” Priya said. “He's  _ unnatural looking.  _ Like a vampire, maybe. Or an alien.”

 

“Well, you know his expressions are like that because he's actually very repressed,” Hermione continued and a thought struck her. “And possibly constipated.”

 

“That's another thing. He hasn't gone to the bathroom the entire time on this trip.”

 

“Er, he might have gone last night,” Hermione hedged. “Not that I was there for it or anything,” she added hastily. “Have you… have you been keeping tabs on all our bathroom habits? That's not weird at all or anything.”

 

“Also, he has no luggage at all, yet he manages to look pristine all the time. Grime seems to slide right off him.”

 

“Some newer clothes are like that,” Hermione tried to explain, trying to stay abreast of the conversation while recalling what other magic she and Malfoy had performed so far on the trip. Her brain was working harder than it had ever worked in the Ministry. “Carbon nanotube technology, you know. It's the latest thing in green tech. Cuts down on laundry.”

 

“He had a really bad sunburn the first day, and it was healed by the time we all went swimming,” Priya pressed on.

 

“That was strange,” Hermione admitted, thinking that she couldn't keep making excuses for Malfoy. Of course, she'd still have to obliviate Priya at some point. All she could do now was brazen this out and then decide what to do.

 

“Not to mention, he looked as though he could  _ breathe _ underwater,” Priya continued. “But the most damning of all is this!” 

 

Hermione stared at the black rectangular device the other girl was holding up. She gazed back at Priya and lifted her shoulders to show she had no idea what the instrument was supposed to be.

 

“It's an ESD. Extraterrestrial Sensory Device. When there are otherworldly creatures around, performing their other other-dimensional actions, this device picks it up. That's what it was doing when I talked to you guys earlier. It started clicking away. He was definitely up to something.”

 

Hermione had completely run out of things to say.

 

“The important thing is that you're starting to believe me,” Priya continued, clearly mistaking her silence for interest and also proving that the device was of no use in social situations. “I'm sure at some point, he brainwashed you into thinking you've known each other for a long time, but you'll find that you actually haven't.”

 

“Oh,” was all Hermione was capable of saying.

 

“I'm telling you as a fellow earthling, as we have to band together against otherworldly specimen,” Priya then said, nodding fervently. Hermione glanced at Ali, who looked less excited in general.

 

“Do you believe what your wife believes?” Hermione asked him.

 

“Oh, we're not married,” Priya said, waving a hand. “We can't get married until we've passed from  _ fledgeling _ to  _ initiate _ .”

 

“I don't know if Malfoy’s as unnatural as Priya believes, but there are things about him that are a little...off,” Ali said.

 

“It's as though he possesses  _ magical _ powers of some kind,” Priya said, and the two turned to face the same direction as Hermione. They watched as Malfoy snapped his fingers and a small flame flickered above his thumb before he showily blew it out. Hermione could have cheerfully throttled him at that point.

 

“Maybe he's a street magician on the side,” Hermione suggested lamely.

 

“Not for some of the tricks he was doing,” Ali said.

 

“So what are you planning to do?” Hermione asked.

 

“We'll keep him under surveillance, of course. And record our findings. If our leader deems this a notable example, then we shall proceed from there, maybe take him back with us to study him further. But I did want to open your eyes to the possibility that he wasn't as above-board as you think. Given the fact that we have quite a lot in common, what with our law background.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione said meekly, ignoring the insult to her profession, and was relieved when the couple left her alone for the moment.

 

There was no other explanation. Her life simply got worse in general when Malfoy was around. Gone was her peaceful trip down the Nile. She had paid for the entire trip but it was all bound to be money down the drain. 

 

Hermione sighed. Most people disembarked at some point in order for the felucca to pick up more passengers, and unfortunately, it looked like she now was going to be one of those people as well. And what the hell had Malfoy been about earlier to so thoroughly tip off Priya? And why was he  _ still _ performing wandless magic like a street performer even though he had to be aware of her glaring at him?

 

Hermione was so engrossed in her infuriating thoughts that at first she didn't notice what was going on with the other passengers once they had returned to the boat. What alerted her first were the two brothers, one who had stood to photograph something in the air. Then, when Priya stood and then Rashi also got up, Hermione glanced up over at Malfoy, who was giving her a pointed look to beat out all pointed looks.

 

She got up and walked across the length of the boat over to Malfoy in slow measured strides the way Mohamed had showed them. A backwards glance showed that both Priya and Ali were preoccupied.

 

“What's going on now?” she asked. “And I have some really bad news to impart as well.” Without waiting for Malfoy to speak, she went on: “Priya and her husband--well, they're not married yet, but I think he wants to be because there's really no accounting for taste--think you're an alien or something.”

 

Malfoy stared at her for a moment before frowning. “An alien what?”

 

“An alien,” Hermione hissed patiently. “Any alien  _ being _ . She thinks you might be from outer space or something. Otherworldly was the word she used. Also, unnatural. Can't you just go to the loo in the bushes like everyone else?”

 

He started. “What do my bowels have to do with anything?”

 

“Well, it was one of the reasons she gave for your weirdness.”

 

“O-kay,” he drew out the word. “So what? What's the bad news?”

 

“She's from some Church of Wiccology and plans to record your actions. Honestly, I could be wrong, but I feel like they want to kidnap you right now. Or, at least she does.”

 

Hermione almost struck him when he smirked. “They're not married, right? Granger, I'll have you know that I've had my share of random lovelorn women follow me about. She just fancies me. Relax. I was wondering why she asked so many questions.”

 

“You mean, you regularly get stalkers?” 

 

“Fans, yes. Is stalker the Muggle word for fan?”

 

“Pretty much,” Hermione said. “She said her ES device went off while we were talking, which was a clear sign--”

 

“What device?”

 

“It's like a Sneakoscope,” she translated impatiently. “What were you doing to set it off?”

 

“I was trying to wandlessly  _ legilimens  _ her, but it didn't work, obviously, since I'm not the Dark Lord. And also because she ran off.”

 

“Well, this is just wonderful,” Hermione said, heaving a sigh. “How do you want to go about this?”

 

“We may have another problem,” Malfoy said, and nodded to the other people on the boat. Hermione followed their gestures and glanced upwards at the sky. There was nothing there, and she looked questioningly back at him.

 

“Some birds flying overhead,” he said in an even tone of voice as the other occupants settled back down in their seats around them. At first, Hermione didn't get the implication. As soon as it became clear, she wanted to leap up and exclaim. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. They were both going to be hauled up for violation of the Statute of Secrecy.

 

Then, just as she opened her mouth to tell him the severity of such an event, he glanced over at her with such a noted lack of expression that she fell back, subdued. Clearly he was better at subterfuge than she was.

 

“How many?” she asked, striving for a more casual tone of voice.

 

“At least five.”

 

“They look like falcons or eagles. Are they common in Egypt?” asked Sofie asked from across the boat.

 

Mohamed looked puzzled as he, too, scanned the skies. “I have never before seen such large birds appear in the day, nor so close to the boats. The last time I saw something like that was two years ago, when the night was filled with such birds. Some people called it the Curse of Horus, but Muslims do not believe in such things.”

 

Hermione's breath drew in sharply and she turned in excitement to Malfoy. “Of  _ course _ , the Sons of Horus!” She had forgotten to modify her volume and only Malfoy’s frown served to warn her.

 

“What are the Sons of Horus?” asked Hans curiously.

 

“They're um, well, people who still believe in ancient mythology. Since Horus was a god with a falcon's head, they tend to equate falcons with him,” she said, doing a pretty good job of spinning the story she had heard into one suitable for Muggle ears, if she did say so herself. That was, until she glanced at Malfoy and saw him roll his eyes.

 

“What now?” she asked in exasperation when the Jorgensens and the sister turned to talk amongst themselves.

 

“It just never ceases to amaze me that you were able to fool Aunt Bella, under a  _ cruciatus _ , mind, and still be so bad at lying,” he snorted, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“I thought I did pretty well, considering,” Hermione said, defensively.

 

“You wouldn't fool anyone who knew you.”

 

“In the words of a famous prat,” she said. “You don't know me. We aren't friends.”

 

He made a strangled sound, and when Hermione glanced over, she thought he might actually have been stifling a laugh. 

 

“We might not be friends, but I know you well enough.” 

 

Although she was keen to start talking about Egyptian folklore, his statement just called for some sort of a rebuttal. “Really, Malfoy? Isn't that a rather ridiculous double standard? You know me, but I don't know you? What are you, my stalker?”

 

“I don't need to be your stalker to know all about you,” he returned. “Given that your entire life was reiterated  _ ad nauseum _ in the  _ Prophet _ after the war.”

 

Hermione flushed. “Most were fabricated for lack of factual input.”

 

“Are you planning on telling me about the Sons of Horus anytime in this lifetime?” he says in such a bored tone of voice that Hermione wanted to push him overboard and forget all the newfound non-antagonistic feelings she had been experiencing in the early hours of the morning. “And you might want to do an anti-eavesdropping charm at some point. And probably some sort of a ward. Unless you have some long-distance secret admirers, I'm pretty sure those owls were sent by my father. In which case, it's only a matter of time before we run into him.”

 

His voice was grim and Hermione fumbled in her bag to cover up her wand movements. “Are you sure they were owls? The others seemed pretty confident they saw falcons.”

 

“Who are you going to believe?” he asked with an edge of exasperation. “The man who grew up with an entire brood of owls, or the Muggles who have trouble differentiating between birds?”

 

“True,” she admitted, nodding. “How do you want to play this?”

 

“Disillusionment?”

 

“I would also have to cast a confundus on everyone here, and recast it every few hours. A stinging hex, maybe?”

 

“Like the one you did to Potter?” He shuddered. “No, that was heinous. Also, it would just hurt  _ me. _ ”

 

“Don’t tempt me, then. Transfiguration?”

 

“Are you going to carry an end table around with you?”

 

“I can manage to do a ferret,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Plus, the owl could still find me, probably.”

 

“Well, how long were you planning to hide from your father anyway?” Hermione asked. “He probably knows exactly where you are.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“What’s taking him so long then?”

 

“Well, he can’t just drop in unannounced on a bunch of Muggles, could he? He’s in enough hot water as it is, so he’d probably play it safe. Drop in on me in the dead of night and portkey me away, maybe.”

 

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. “Tell me again why you can’t just go back to  _ talk _ to him.”

 

“Have you never spoken to my father?” Malfoy asked impatiently.

 

“Well, obviously he’s a terrible human being, in my opinion, but he’s still  _ your _ father. I’m assuming he wants only good things for you.”

 

“Good things that he decides,” Malfoy replied tersely. “I’m not going back just to do his bidding.” 

 

Hermione saw that his hands were clenched. He definitely had issues with his family. That was something she was familiar with, given that all the men in her life had family issues. “So what do you want to do about it?” she asked reasonably. “And we might want to decide something quick, given that there are two people on board who want to kidnap you. Although I’m not sure how they’re planning to feasibly carry it out.”

 

Malfoy snorted in derision. “Right. They’re going to carry me away and stuff me in a carryall.” Then he blinked. “They can’t do that, can they?”

 

“I don’t think so. Unless they have any more of those ES devices lying around. Maybe they have a shrink-ray,” she managed with a straight face.

 

Malfoy looked horrified. He might not have known the term “shrink-ray” but it was sufficiently clear what such a thing could do. “They wouldn’t.”

 

“All right, maybe not,” Hermione said, relenting. Of the two groups, a frightened Malfoy was the more dangerous, especially if he got his hands on a wand. “Honestly, I don’t think they’d be able to sneak you out of Egypt anyway. They’re really young. I’m sure they’re just letting their imagination run rampant.”

  
“Still,” he said, looking around uneasily. “Muggles used to burn witches and wizards, or drown them. My aunt used to tell me stories.”

 

“Do you know how long ago that was?” Hermione felt obligated to demand. “There are laws against that sort of thing now. I just want to explain that those two are not mainstream Muggles. They're taking their, er, religion, a little too extreme.”

 

“I really need a wand,” he said, looking around warily. “Not to mention my father's probably not too far off. We should leave here so he doesn’t know where we are. He can't do anything too obvious in front of Muggles, but I don't doubt he'll be around, waiting when we dock. When  _ I  _ dock, that is _. _ It’s not as though you need to come with me.” He cast her a glance that was almost diffident in nature.

 

It was a particularly strange look on him. She must have been imagining it. “Er, do you  _ want _ me to come with you? Because, erm, I can just leave you to it,” she said awkwardly. Then she realized that if Malfoy left her now, she would be left alone in a boat of Muggles. It wasn't a problem, obviously, having grown up as one. Still her heart sank a bit, although she told herself she was going to feel extraordinarily relieved to be shot of his presence. Of course she was. She wasn’t having a good time with all his drama or anything. She definitely wasn't enjoying his company, sarcastic thing that he was. Even though, granted, this might be the most exciting thing she had done in years. No, she didn't just think that. She loved her life and job at the Ministry. She wasn't going to miss drama at all. Really.

 

“No, er, you can come along,” he replied, with some facial twitches and looking just as awkward as she felt.

 

“So you  _ want _ me to come along?” she asked, just to be sure. It was starting to be repetitive.

 

“Merlin’s wrinkled ball sack! Granger, just come with me,” he ordered, impatient now and reasserting himself from his former coyness. “By all that is magical, this is not a discussion that needs to be prolonged.”

 

“Right, okay, yes. In that case, we should anticipate your father and leave now,” she said, becoming equally decisive.

 

He looked at her as though she had a crumple-horn snorkack breeding on her head. “What, now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Jump overboard?” he asked with incredulity. “Or were you planning on levitating me somewhere? Shouldn’t we plan something first?”

 

“Create a diversion,” she ordered as she got up and didn't wait to see what he was doing.

 

It took the work of a few minutes to cast a false memory charm and a confundus to cover their departure. Priya and Ali took a little longer, as they already had notes and pictures of them that needed to be erased and replaced with gibberish. They were going to be exceedingly confused by their endless notes on the local delicacies.

 

Then she made her way back to Malfoy, who was pointing up into the sky as a lame distraction, grabbed his arm before he knew what was happening, and apparated away before the glazed eyes of the other passengers.

 

 

***

 

It was a poor landing for Draco, who rolled over in the sandy ground, groaned, and lay still. He felt rather than saw Granger crouched over him.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked him, sounding a bit worried.

 

“You plonker!” he moaned. “Couldn't you have warned me?”

 

Her figure moved away. “There was no time. Didn't you say your father was on your tail?”

 

“Where are we?” he asked instead of responding or getting up. He emitted another groan just for effect.

 

“Luxor.”

 

He sat up and got to his feet, brushing off the back of his trousers. “Why didn’t we do this earlier? And isn’t apparating far more exhilarating than enduring hours on end of that floating germ bubble? We could have been here yesterday.”

 

“You can’t get the Nile experience by apparating everywhere,” she said in her swotty voice.

 

“Don’t be such a Muggle,” he said and then rolled his eyes when she stiffened and shot him a look. “Oh, c’mon, Granger, you’re a bloody  _ witch _ . You don’t need to live like a Muggle.”

 

“How can you be dating a Muggle and still say such things?” she asked.

 

_ Fuck _ , he thought. He forced his hands to continue combing through his hair with any air of nonchalance.

 

“So it’s not serious then?” she persisted.

 

“It is,” he denied. “It’s just that...er, well, it’s hard, you know. Background differences and all that.”  _ Please stop asking, please stop asking _ , he chanted to himself. Instead of keeping an eye out for nefarious characters, he should have used his time camped in front of the bank to make up a more believable girlfriend than what was currently floating at the forefront of his mind: a blank female outline with the words  _ Muggle  _ where her face should be.

 

“Are you sure you’re not just doing it to give your parents one great ‘sod off’?” she asked, and he tried to swallow the sigh of relief that threatened to erupt.

 

“There’s also the sex,” he lied. If he had to lie, he might as well make it out to be a salacious one.

 

She blushed in response and he raised his eyebrows at that. “C’mon, Granger. We’re like twenty-six. How can you be blushing at the mention of sex?”

 

She ignored him. “Is it really worth the sex to go up against your parents like this? Is that the mature thing to do?”

 

“It really is,” Draco replied with an edge of fervency to his words. Well, what he remembered of sex, it definitely had been worth  _ some _ rebellion. That had been a damn long time though, now that he thought of it. “Wait a second. Don’t tell me  _ you’re _ still a virgin.”

 

She blushed harder under his interested eyes. “Oh, that’s really mature, Malfoy. What are we, in secondary school?”

 

“ _ Where? _ ”

 

“I mean, Hogwarts.”

 

“Right, whatever. Are you--really?” He was being extraordinarily pushy, given their truce, but this--he just had to know. He had always thought--not that he spent a lot of time thinking about her or anything--that she would be just a  _ freak _ in the bedroom, but this…? 

 

“It's really none of your business, Malfoy, but no, I am not.”

 

_ Oh.  _

 

“So who got there first? Weasley?” The thought made his face screw up in disgust. He knew at the time that the ginger had been panting for Granger for most of their schooling. On her part, he always thought she had a thing for Potter, which would have been disgusting but not unfathomable, given the latter's sainthood.

 

“I am not talking about this with you,” she said.

 

“So that's a no to Weasley? What’s the matter? Couldn’t he get it up? Would have thought the way those gingers multiplied that they couldn’t keep it  _ down _ .”

 

“The entrance to the wizarding capital is this way.”

 

“Don’t change the subject just when things got interesting, Granger,” he said. “We have to talk about  _ something _ to pass the time, don't we?”

 

“Did you want to get a new wand or not? Because I'm not sure I can spare the seven galleons for it,” she said snippily.

 

“Isn't it twelve galleons now, after the war?” he asked, trotting after her. Some newfound maturity or his innate self-preservation made him drop the subject.

 

He followed her as she made her way along the sandy and rocky ground. From what he remembered in texts, the wizarding town of Luxor was a bustling center of life in Egypt. 

 

They passed by several gigantic statues on the West Bank that should have led to a wizarding city center, and she led them unerringly through the tallest two guardians of the ancient city. However, when they had gone through, they found themselves walking once again along the bank.

 

“I've a question, Granger,” he said. “Actually two. Do you know where we are going and why the hell we're walking around in circles?”

 

She turned then to face him, and he could see the slight confusion and a little panic on her face. “It should be right there,” she protested. “I don't understand it.”

 

“Are you sure we're in the right city, even?” he asked, trying to freak her out like the way she did with him and the alien-hunters.

 

“I’m sure of it!” she said, and pointed. “Look, the entrance is supposed to be right here. But it's taking us back to the riverbank again.”

 

“It's--”

 

“ _ Infinitus balteum _ ,” both of them said at the same time, gazing at each other with mixed combinations of revelation and consternation.

 

“Why has someone blocked off the entrance to the capital with an infinite loop spell?” she asked, seemingly to herself. 

 

“Do you need help?” someone asked out of the blue, causing them to jump.

 

Draco turned to see a wizened-looking man smiling at them. At first glance, he looked easily twice their age. He had the darker skin of the Mediterranean and wrinkles on his face. Even his wrinkles had wrinkles. Draco couldn't see a better advisement to return home to cloudy England than this walking flier of the dangers of the sun.

 

“Looking for wizards, maybe? I take you. Ten galleons,” the man said, gesturing for them to follow him.

 

Draco tried to haul Granger back, but she was already engaging with the man.

 

“Ten?!” she yelped. “No,  _ one.” _

 

“Seven,” the man returned. “I am a poor wizard, and Egypt is no good right now.”

 

“Three,” Granger replied while Draco tried to get her to leave. He didn't make a habit of speaking to strangers, and that habit had never steered him wrong before.

 

“Five.” They were still at it.

 

“Four.”

 

“Okay, okay,” the man said, throwing up his hands and looking mildly downcast in a way that was much too happy to be truthful. “Come, come.”

 

With Granger tugging at his sleeve, they followed the man in the opposite direction to which they had been walking. They heard the sounds of voices before they saw what was ahead, which was an ancient Roman theater. The air thrummed with magic.

 

“See, Malfoy?” Granger hissed to him in triumphant tones. “Thank goodness I thought to follow him. How else would we get inside the capital?”

 

“Here there be wizards,” the man said in a very stagey way and received the galleons from Granger as Draco watched sourly. The man cackled and disapparated from in front of them.

 

Granger unerringly marched forward, while Draco dragged his feet from behind.

 

They emerged at one of the upper archways leading to a theater holding a group of around forty to fifty people. Before Granger could storm to the front, Draco gestured her back so they could take in what was happening. 

 

It seemed as though some sort of ritual was taking place. There was a stone platform a little larger and taller than a coffin in the center of the theater, and everyone stood in concentric circles facing the platform. The most notable was the fact that the genders seemed displaced: a man lay atop the stone platform, while surrounding him were circle upon circle of women, with the outermost circle comprised of men.

 

“Weird,” Granger whispered.

 

“Have you read of anything like this in your books?” he whispered back.

 

Silently, she shook her head. They crouched down and continued to watch. Neither of them felt inclined to storm out to demand anything in this strange proceeding. 

 

The man on the stone platform was disrobed with gentle, reverent motions. Draco felt Granger’s sharp indrawn breath next to him. He wondered if she had reached the same conclusion he had: that this was a fertility rite. Certainly, that explained the excess of females in the congregation. One woman, in particular, stood out. Unlike the others, she was dressed more showily in a long shimmery gold shift, with a circlet on her head, and henna drawings all over her bared arms, clearly a head priestess of some kind. In another minute, two women had come forward to disrobe her as well. There were ritual markings all over her nude body. All wore gold pendants that he realized were carved male members in erect form.

 

It was pretty clear what was about to happen, and a more embarrassing thing to watch with Granger, he could not imagine. Still, curiosity had both of them in its grip. He noticed that not even Granger the prude suggested leaving. It made sense--when was the next time they'd ever get to witness one of these ancient and highly secret rituals?

 

His guess wasn't wrong. After a few more chants, the disrobed woman had climbed atop the prone man and they were going at it in heated, rocking movements. Draco found himself growing hot. It had been much too long since he last had opportunity for similar exercise. 

 

Below, the head priestess had gotten the man all roused, despite the fact that they were on a  _ stone _ pedestal, which could not have been comfortable. She rose up off the man, leaving his member sticking straight up and slick with her juices. Draco swallowed hard. 

 

Just as he was thinking of calming thoughts in order to bring his blood pressure down, Granger jabbed him in the stomach. He wasn't sure what she wanted--maybe she also felt a need to participate in the ritual? He would oblige, of course, since he was no longer prejudiced. She wasn't  _ ugly _ after all, and she had a nice, fit body on her--not that he spent a long time checking her out or anything.  But she really needed to work on her foreplay technique. His stomach was pretty sore where her pointy elbow had slammed into it.

 

“Malfoy!” she yelled at a whisper in his ear. “Oh my gosh!”

 

Was she getting excited too? Was this happening with her, right here, right now? All right, fine, he had always found her  _ somewhat _ attractive--he had a thing for petite girls with big mouths, apparently, and she fit the bill to a T.

 

His mouth was really close to her ear. If he wanted to, he could--

 

Then, in the next minute, the head priestess reached high with a dagger--

 

What? No, that was all kinds of wrong.

 

\--and cut off the man's erect member. 

 

Luckily, Granger's and his screams were masked by the elevated volume in chanting as the head priestess continued to lavish love on the now disconnected male organ, even sticking it in herself with every semblance of pleasure.

 

“What the fuck, Granger!” Draco found himself whisper-yelling. “What the fucking fuck is going on?!”

 

If he had been in his right mind and not had both hands clapped over his own bits, Draco would have appreciated how the know-it-all was hyperventilating next to him. 

 

“This-is-not-happening. This-is-not-happening,” she chanted several beats faster than the chanting below them.

 

Both of them were in frozen states of shock, as below, the women systematically disrobed and began to mount the men in the outermost circle. It should have been any man's dream, being double-teamed by two women, some automatically sinking to their knees. Unfortunately, foremost in Draco's mind was the thought that all of those men were at risk of losing their family jewels.

 

“I can't watch,” he thought he might have whimpered at one point, but both of them remained glued in their crouched positions.

 

“Let's go,” Granger replied, breathing coming out heavier than normal. He didn't fool himself into thinking she was aroused. At least, he really hoped not.

 

As she laid her small hand on his forearm--he flinched at even this small contact--she suddenly stopped.

 

Below them, splashed with blood, the head priestess had raised up her wand and was waving it in some sort of shape. With a start, Draco found that he understood the next words:

 

“Behold, the rise of Horus!”

 


	7. Chapter 7

“That was possibly one of the most traumatizing things I've ever experienced,” Draco said, his hands buried in his hair. “And I've been crucio'd.”

 

They were now sitting at a cafe on the East Bank. Tourists milled around on the street outside. It was nearing the end of October, but the sun had been unseasonably warm. The air conditioner had just been turned on, and the ceiling fan slowly whipped cooler air around them.

 

He sat, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them as the thought hit him that he looked defensive. He tried not to think about how sticking up for Muggles was what had landed him in this giant mess, but the thought reiterated itself nastily in his mind. If he hadn't tried to rebel, then he wouldn't have tried to run away from his father, and he wouldn't be here at her mercy, without a wand. He was quite literally at her mercy amidst penis-choppers. How delightful.

 

“Well, going back to the West Bank is out, Granger. I don't know about you, but I'm not getting within a metre of those psychos again. Even the Dark Lord didn't torture men like that.”

 

He watched the Muggles outside the shop behave in ways that were contrary to his ideas of the norm. For example, two men in long white robes were walking arm in arm with one another and now had stopped in the middle of the road to sit on the median, their porcelain coffee cups and saucers next to them on the ground. Common knowledge told him most Muggles wore incomprehensible outfits, but he had never before seen depicted Muggles traversing public roads in nightgowns with towels on their heads. The current U.K. Wizarding Minister wore a pretty colorful outfit with a headdress and looked impressive doing it, but these didn't look anything like what he wore. And drinking in the middle of a busy thoroughfare seemed just hazardous enough to be crazy.

 

“I feel like there’s been something off in Egypt this whole time we’ve been here,” she said, eyes wide and leaning across the table in her excitement. He could smell some soapy fragrance drifting from her, the same kind that he had noticed just before they apparated each time. He wondered if she had discovered conditioner. If he had to hazard a guess, he would posit that the Ministry had ordered her to do something about her hair, because it had never looked so delectable in school save that one time. She had started the trip looking fairly decent for her, hair-wise, but the dip in the Nile had been less than kind there.

 

Still, her hair retained a soapy fragrance. It smelled clean. Fresh. He only wished he felt the same way. He felt itchy and stubbly. His hair probably looked worse than hers had in school, and that was really saying something awful. In comparison, she looked as fresh as a daisy, tan and healthy. He wondered inconsequentially if she had that delightful tan all over.

 

“What are you thinking about?” she was asking. “Your eyes are closed.”

 

“Oh. Ah. Erm. Is that behavior normal amongst Muggles?” he asked, nodding at the men he noticed earlier to cover up his momentary lapse. A change of topic was definitely called for. That line of thought--it could only have come from the spectacle he had just witnessed. Erotic in a...very,  _ very _ disturbing sort of way.

 

And it was only that he really, really wanted a bath, that was all, and she smelled clean. That was it. That was the connection. He really wasn't thinking about anything that he ought not, or trying to picture her naked, which he could just stop right now. It wasn’t as though he fancied her or anything, or, Merlin forbid, chuffed by the strange performance they just witnessed.

 

She glanced over her shoulders. “Oh, it's just the culture here. Muggles in different places behave differently, wear different clothes. Don't wizards?”

 

Draco shrugged to cover up his ignorance. His parents had a list of places that were deemed acceptable to visit, and places within places that were acceptable to frequent. It was a very short list, and Draco realized for the first time how sheltered he really was. For example, how was it that Granger, a Muggleborn, had visited Luxor, the wizarding capital of Egypt, when he hadn't? It boggled the mind and was yet another thing he had to chalk up to the Malfoys’ Parenting Fails. 

 

“Or did you mean their robes? I think they're called thawbs. I like them. They look comfortable.”

 

He did, too, rather, once he got over the culture shock. There were a lot of things he found himself appreciating about the utter slovenness of this country. For example, the fact that he looked like an absolute gypsy. Back home, he wouldn’t have been caught dead looking half as disgusting as he now looked. Here, nobody spared him a second glance. He wondered if, as a child, he had allowed more freedom, he wouldn’t have been so averse to grime and dirt as his mother definitely was. He wondered about a lot of things, in the few days he had been here.

 

He wondered how his mother would react if he came home sporting one of those, complete with the headband and thingamabob towels. 

 

That was, if he ever managed to get home.

 

“This trip was an abysmal failure,” he finally decided to sulk. Sulking was easy. Open-minded tourism was not. “We couldn’t get inside the capital, and what we could see of it was either deserted or filled to the brim with mad witches.”

 

“There wasn’t a  _ infinitus balteum _ in place five years ago,” she said thoughtfully. “Unless…”

 

“Yes?” he prompted, uneasily. 

 

She sat still in her seat for a moment, staring down at the table and blinking every so often with a little furrow between her brows.

 

“What do you think was happening back there?” she asked, finally looking up. He realized that while he had been envisioning the worst possible scenarios, Hermione Granger had been sitting across from him, getting a sort of gleam in her eyes that he realized with alarm was  _ excitement _ . Salazar give him strength, the mad witch was actually enjoying all of this--the poor, toilet paper-less accommodations aboard the boat, the tacky decor of this poverty-stricken cafe, the general unhygienic ambience of this entire misbegotten trip. He sincerely hoped it was those things and not the idea of cutting off male extremities that was getting her juices revving. 

 

As for him, the first thing he planned to do when he returned home was to burn the clothes he was wearing and soak in a scalding bath with scourgifying foam charms for three days straight and maybe obliviate some images from his scarred brain. Then, maybe he could finally have a private chuckle at this whole misbegotten operation.

 

But that would be far and away back home. Safe in England.

 

“Are you kidding me, Granger?” he said, turning incredulous eyes on her as though she had completely lost the plot. “Did you not see the same thing I did? Were you not there when the bloke was getting his...you know...chopped off and stuffed inside her like she was basting a blasted turkey?”

 

“It’s strange, isn’t it? They’re clearly a group of wizards. She raised her wand at the end and reattached the...you know...back on.”

 

“It’s never going to work right again, just so he knows,” Draco groused. “It’s best as nature originally intended.”

 

“Well, aside from the shock that statement just gave me, especially coming from you, why would you say that? The whole point to magic is that it can reverse wounds.”

 

“Granger, I’m assuming you didn’t know a Death Eater named Peter Pettigrew, who sacrificed a hand to the Dark Lord. It was later rejuvenated, but it was basically made of  _ steel _ and looked like a corpse hand.”

 

“You’re wrong, I did know him. Or I met him once. He was an animagus.”

 

“Right,” Draco said, narrowing his eyes as he sought the original point of their conversation. She took a little too much pleasure in telling him off, which he would have something to say at any other time than right this very minute. It was quite possible that he would start hallucinating at any point now, not having had proper accommodations to rest for more than two days now. Or three. Two and a half?

 

“What do you think they were saying?” she said, eyes thoughtful.

 

“What? Oh, the ritual. At the end, she said something about the rise of Horus, if I’m not mistaken. That last bit was recited in Latin, which is strange, if you consider it. Wouldn’t Ancient Greek be closer to the original version? They were first to conquer this region, after all. The Romans came later.”

 

“I  _ knew _ it had something to do with the Sons of Horus!” she exclaimed triumphantly, and then lowered her voice after she cast a surreptitious look around. He rolled his eyes at her belated discretion. “And the falcons. It all makes sense, sort of.”

 

“Pray tell,” he said dryly, but doubted he could stop her.

 

“The Sons of Horus. Horus and Set--” she started to say.

 

“Just so you're aware, you don't need to give me a three day thesis on Egyptian history, as that was already covered in Professor Binn's class, shoddy as that was,” he cut in. Sure, he may have traveled less than this uncultured Muggleborn, but he knew a thing or two, if only in theory.

 

“I'm just trying to give you the background,” she said. “Since most people don't actually read the book. Plus I found it to be limited,  geographically.”

 

“I'm not ‘most people,’ by which I take to mean Potter and Weasley. I assure you, I did the assigned reading  _ and _ the extracurricular reading for that class.”

 

“ _ You _ did the extracurricular reading?”

 

Her incredulity was insulting. “Granger, it was schoolwork. And there was extra credit for the extra parts. Of course I did the reading.” Then he realized that her incredulity wasn’t directed at him but meant something else. He snorted. “Tell me again why you were friends with those two? I know why they were friends with  _ you _ . Without you, they probably wouldn't have been able to find their classrooms by themselves. Didn't they get lost trying to find the bloody  _ train _ once? I mean, the train.” He sniggered, reminiscing in the good laugh he had at their account back in the day. 

 

Her grimace was the only sign she heard him. “Well, the ritual--grotesque as it was--was clearly trying to recreate the conflict between Osiris and Set, and the steps Isis went to to find her husband. Osiris was already in pieces, hacked and dispersed by his brother Set, by the time Isis--his wife and sister--found him. She was only able to find his, er, male member, and reanimated it long enough to impregnate herself--thus, the rise of Horus.”

 

He made a face in response.

 

“Did you remark his body, how there were lines all over it, to recreate the “being hacked into pieces’ bit? I'm really glad they didn't try to recreate that part.” She shuddered.

 

“So, are they bringing back Horus then?” he asked. “Like how Voldemort came back? Because that was an unmitigated disaster.”

 

She stared at him in horror. “Oh my gosh, I hadn’t even considered that. I was just thinking this is how they imbue their followers with power or whatever.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “There are other ways to get power than to cut off a wizard’s favorite wand. It must be considered the ultimate sacrifice.”

 

“Oh, I need to notify Harry at once.” She bit her lip. “Should I send a patronus? No, I couldn’t possibly relay the magnitude of the situation properly. No, you’re right, I should get back and show the Aurors my memories. You too, Draco. Why don’t they use floos here?!”

 

Draco started at the sound of his name, but it seemed as though she wasn’t even aware what she had said. In fact, she sounded more as though she were talking to herself, but out loud. The old Draco would have grasped at this opportunity to make fun of her, but the slightly wiser Draco decided that any information he had was better than none and decided to pick his moments.

 

“Why did that very strange man take us there instead of to the capital?” he asked when her verbal thoughts began to wind down.

 

“To be fair,” she said thoughtfully. “He told us he was taking us to where the wizards were. We didn’t listen closely enough, apparently.”

 

“What I want to know is whether or not the capital is still standing, and whether those...witches...will still be guarding the entrance like a flurry of Furies.”

 

“That really depends, I think. I heard from the Aurors that a few years ago that there was a major dissension within the Egyptian wizarding community, which might have been what Mohamed was talking about--the effects were so far-flung that even Muggles felt it. They're one of the oldest but also least populated countries worldwide, and the rift between those who follow Set's teachings and Horus's teachings have only widened with time, with Horus, of course, having the majority of supporters.”

 

“Putting aside the utter ridiculousness of that statement, given what we just saw, I’ve always felt that there was a connection between that and his followers being slightly more educated,” he said. “Of course, that theory is being put paid to after today.”

 

She tilted her head in thought. “Hmm... that’s an interesting theory and not too far off, possibly. You mean, because they are more capable of spreading his teachings?”

 

“So to speak. They're more capable of creating lasting propaganda.” He was an expert on the subject of brainwashing and propaganda, having been a fun juvenile Death Eater experiment himself back in the day.

 

“Well, that's true. And I  _ have _ noticed that the God of War has a similarly poor reputation in Greek and Roman history, which happened to be the subsequent conquering empires. And it’s quite possible that the ritual today is limited to a select few, with the highest Priest being the, er, lucky one.”

 

“Likely the same gods and myths recycled to solidify power over the conquered,” Draco said dryly. “It's easier to control people if they believe in similar things. All they have to do is transfer their sheeplike adoration to the next controlling entity.” He knew all about the mentality of the solidifying power and sheeplike behavior. Lord Voldemort had espoused varying reiterated beliefs that had all the Deatheaters jumping on the bandwagon without a second thought. Recycled ideas were the best way to begin a coup. And Draco, of course, had been trained from infancy to obey those in power.

 

“Exactly! Conquering empires always try to assimilate the conquered into their culture by incorporating the conquered’s religions or ideas or holidays, which were usually the case. Set has such a bad reputation that Ares, and then Mars, display the same negative back stories. And it's even more jarring when you take into consideration that the Greeks, in order to promote their own military campaign, have Athena, the  _ wise  _ goddess of war! They needed to retain the disdain for war and disorder from the old world, yet promote their own agenda in the new empire. Thus the need to separate the two by using gender. God, there are so many papers that could be written on this.” Granger was so excited talking about her swotty ideas that she was almost bouncing in her seat. She was also getting a fanatical light in her eyes.

 

It made him almost want to laugh. 

 

“Clearly Set was much maligned and his opponents set on ruining his legacy forever,” he agreed.

 

“Yes, I've always felt so!” She gave a happy sigh and looked at him with bright eyes. “I must say, Malfoy, I didn't expect that you of all people would appreciate my theory.”

 

He narrowed his eyes. She sure had a knack for getting his back up. Seeing his expression, she hastily continued, “I mean, we've never discussed such things before... is why. Not that I was doubting your intelligence or anything.”

 

He gave her a look that translated into “good save.  _ Not _ .” “Horus is the god of vengeance. I'd say that ruining your rival’s legacy for all eternity would fall right under the category of vengeance. After all, that was the goal of immortality.” He knew all about trying to attain immortality too. For a group with such longevity, he wondered why wizards wanted  _ still _ more time alive. 

 

She hummed in happy agreement. “Anyway, Set’s followers gradually recouped their numbers in the last century, but a few years ago, there was a major dispute that turned into a regional war.That must have been what Mohamed was talking about,” she said in a low voice. “The falcons that filled the night. Horus's followers use falcons as familiars. As a ritual, the recreation of his conception should imbue Horus’s followers with renewed powers. Especially considering that Osiris was a fertility god.”

 

“Granger, I hope to Merlin's hairy armpits that you haven't landed us into another war zone,” he drawled. “I don't know about you, but I've had enough of fighting to last me a lifetime.”

 

“I don't think we are,” Granger said in a small enough voice to alarm him. “The Ministry would have issued a warning and...” 

 

He raised an eyebrow as she trailed off and bit her lip. “What?”

 

“I didn't apply for a portkey,” Granger confessed. “I flew. The Muggle way. I thought that because I'd be going on several tours that they would need to see my passport, and I didn't fancy having to  _ obliviate _ and  _ confund _ my way through Egypt. It'd be really strange if I didn't have an entry stamp. So I wouldn't know if the Ministry has a regional warning in place. That's the purview of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

 

He heaved a giant sigh. “Well, that's just bloody fantastic. I'm up the river without a wand.  _ Literally _ . How were you planning on returning to England?”

 

“Um. Fly? By airplane, that is, not broom.”

 

“Curse it, Granger, I hate to sound self-absorbed here but what about  _ me _ , hmm? I know you don't have to give a damn about me, but how the hell am I supposed to get out of here?”

 

He hadn't meant to complain to her, but he was about to fling his fists towards the skies and moan. So much for rebelling. So much for independence and independent thought. He should have stuck to going to the new Muggle souvenir shop and calling it a day. Instead he  _ had  _ to make a grand gesture. Now he had quite possibly landed himself in a war zone with his nemesis, no less, and now was at her mercy for a toothbrush. Howling at the fates didn't seem too extreme a reaction.

 

“We can, um, create our own portkey,” she said in a low voice.

 

“What’s that?” he asked, frowning. “Did you just suggest making an unauthorized portkey?”

 

She shrugged and looked pointedly back at him. “Do you have a better idea?”

 

“No,” he said, shaking his head and gazing at her in reluctant admiration. “ _ You _ know how to make a portkey.” It was a cross between a statement and question.

 

“Well, I’ve only done it once,” she admitted. “Almost a decade ago. We didn't end up using it, but I studied the concept and the spell.”

 

“Of course you did,” he said with a snort. “You know it’s illegal. The Ministry can revoke your wand for it.”

 

Now she was the one who shook her head. “They can’t. They don’t have a way of tracking who makes portkeys. They can’t track portkeys. Not really.”

 

He laughed. “You’re kidding me. Then how is it people aren’t making portkeys willy-nilly?” Now that he thought of it, the Dark Lord  _ had _ a rather large and bottomless collection of portkeys. That probably explained his ability to apparate seemingly without end within the span of a few hours. Draco suddenly had an image of the Dark Lord cackling with glee as he vanished and reappeared before his minions with uncommon ease. The wizard probably enjoyed thinking up ways to befuddle his followers.

 

“There are very specific rules to making them,” she said. “If most people can’t brew a  _ felix felicis _ , then they aren’t able to make a portkey.”

 

“Right,” he acknowledged. “So how do you go about making one, oh knowledgeable one?”

 

“First, you can stop with the sarcasm. Second, you have to be in a specific place to do it. There’s a specific time of the month to make one for long distance travel, and this week just happens to fall within that window. And the object has to be one that resonates with the place.”

 

“I know all this,” Draco said impatiently. “Are you going to tell me the big secret behind the different locations or what? I’m the one that needs to go back to Britain. In case you haven’t noticed, my skin is suffering in this climate.”

 

“Ley lines,” she said in an even lower voice so that he had to lean forward to hear. “The  _ portus _ spell can only be cast in an intersection of ley lines. And I know the most important ones.”

 

He raised his eyebrows and stared at her. Now that was a big secret. Ley lines were a closely guarded secret in the wizarding world, and one stumbled upon it in the same way that ye olde days had utilized divining rods for water. He knew that they were used for various other dark spells, but the fact that they were used for such a supposedly simple spell was almost ridiculous. His father had even gone through a period of time investing in buying land containing an abundance of ley line intersections.

 

“Granger, sometimes you’re scary, d’you know that?” he drawled. “How the bloody hell do you know this stuff? Even I don’t know the particulars of that specific spell. It’s a well-guarded secret in the Ministry. My father always thought it was a way for the Ministry to put a tax on international travel.”

 

“Well, much as I would hate to give your father any credit at all... _ but _ , he's not wrong. And, as for your other question, I have a talent for research,” she admitted, giving a shrug and a little laugh. 

 

He realized that he had just given her what was almost a compliment. Still, he supposed she deserved it, bailing him out of his own mess and just being a general brilliant swot in times of crises. Her cheeks were pink and she looked decidedly--yes, he was just going to go out there and think it--pretty.

 

Well, why not? He could think it, as long as he wasn’t saying it out loud.

 

“Clearly,” he said out loud. “Why aren’t you working in the Department of Mysteries?”

 

“They go insane down there,” she said. “Didn’t you know? They spend so much time near the veil that they lose track of time and reality.”

 

“Well, go on about the ley lines. Intersection of ley lines, yes?”

 

Now she was leaning forward too. Draco realized that they were so close over the small circular table that their hands were only a few inches from one another. He was so close note that he could itemize the scents coming from her hair. It was a strange mixture of soap and...clean air and  _ rain?  _ Most odd.

 

“--have to be made in an intersection of three or more ley lines. There are only a handful of those in Britain. The most prominent one is--”

 

“Within the Ministry?” he guessed, frowning to give the impression he had been attending the whole time.

 

“Exactly. Well guarded.”

 

“What about Egypt?”

 

She tucked a curl that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear. He followed her gesture with his eyes. Up close, her hair didn’t look frizzy but rather soft and puffy, like cotton growing in the field.

 

“ _ That’s _ the fascinating thing about the Mediterranean,” she said, getting that glitter in her eyes again that made them glow like amber. Or like the Dark Lord's eyes, he corrected himself. “People have posited that the Mediterranean was such a hotspot of civilizations because of its weather, but there’s such a profusion of ley lines here.”

 

“Power,” he said. “The dominion of ley lines over several centuries could accrue magical power.” He was impressed with just how much she knew and had culled from reading. Salazar knew, they all had access to the same books, but nobody linked information together like Hermione Granger. 

 

“Kind of a pity though, about that man,” she mused. “The sacrificial goat.”

 

“Obviously,” he said and then frowned. “Why? I mean, aside from the obvious.”

 

“Well, from his girth, it was kind of a pity. And it was a rather attractive dick as well.”

 

Draco spit out his coffee. “Granger!”

 

She gazed innocently back at him. “What? I'm just saying, he had an impressive… size. Cutting that off was a shame. Not to mention he seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

 

Draco was speechless. And blushing.

 

“What?” she asked and rolled her eyes. “Don't tell me  _ you're _ a virgin. All that talk about sex was just a front.”

 

Draco glanced furiously around before responding in a low hiss. “I am  _ not _ a virgin, alright?”

 

“Then why are you acting like such a prude?” she asked and then her eyes softened. “Not that there's anything wrong with being a virgin. Poor Draco. No wonder you're so angsty all the time.”

 

Hearing the words virgin and Draco from her prissy little mouth was doing odd things to him. He was definitely feeling a little angsty. And so he lied. “I'm not angsty! And it has nothing to do with…anything! Least of all my sex life, which is extraordinarily active, I’ll have you know. Extremely so.”

 

“Hmm,” she replied, looking unconvinced in a way that should have infuriated him, but instead made him want to blush like a little girl. “Anyway, do you think the ritual--”

 

“No, you're not going to 'hmm’ at me in that way and change the subject. Let's go, right now! On this table!”

 

“Oh, calm down,” she said. “Obviously, I was having a go at you. You have a girlfriend, remember?”

 

Draco gaped at her for a moment before snapping his jaw shut. “Right. Yes. I do. With whom I engage in very acrobatic intercourse. All the time.”

 

“Anyway, I just realized how much of a female empowerment this whole Horus group is. The majority of the followers there were women. And, well, let's just say that I'm probably not the only woman who's dreamt about lopping off a man's bits.”

 

Draco jaw dropped again. “ _ What? _ ” Fucking hell, she was just determined to give him a heart attack today, on top of everything he had already gone through. One minute, she was talking about another man's penis for all like she was more experienced than he was--and she definitely was not and could not possibly be. The next, she had changed the subject and was talking about female empowerment, which she then used as a lead-in to castration.

 

She made an equivocating gesture with her hand. “You know. If some man is particularly foul or loathsome.”

 

Draco was too busy staring at her in dismay.  _ Foul _ ?  _ Loathsome _ ? He was getting a chill down his spine at the adjectives. He cleared his throat. “For the record, I am not the same person I used to be in school. I hope you've noticed that.”

 

“What--? Oh. You're thinking--Look, it's just a manner of speech. I'm not going to do any lopping,” she said and then flashed him a disturbing grin. 

 

Draco rubbed both hands on the sides of his neck and opened up his jaw until he felt it pop. “Merlin, Granger. I used to pity Weasley in how he clearly was always trying to ingratiate himself with you, romantically, and not succeeding in the least, but now I think he got off lucky. Since you clearly have issues.”

 

“I'm just stating the fact that I get why they have such a large following. Their religion or cult, whatever, has a large support base of women. Isis. She's the one actively working to bring back the man. She saves him. Sort of. In the original version, obviously.”

 

“Through the use of her womb?” he replied, trying to follow her on her tangents. Maybe he had underestimated Potter and Weasley all those years ago. Maybe they always walked around looking slack-jawed because they hung out too long with this witch. “That's the same tale perpetuated in various myths around the world. I would posit that this idea devalues women, in reducing their only value to what physicality men do not have. There's surely more to females than that.”

 

This time, it was Granger's mouth that dropped open. “In all my life, I had never expected Draco Malfoy to be a female rights advocate.”

 

“Well, why not? I was only a blood purist, not a chauvinist.”

 

“Was, huh?” she said, looking him over in amusement. 

 

“Well, I think your extremely compelling arguments about  _ lopping _ have managed to sway me.” 

 

This time, when she laughed, every part of his brain, and not just the small section that got pummeled by the larger consensus, thought it: Hermione Granger was really very pretty. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

It was decided--illegal portkey-making it was.

 

Actually, she had decided it, and Draco had done his damnedest to talk her out of it. Illegality of any kind had never sat well on him unless the loophole was loud and clear.  Unfortunately, she held all the cards, and specifically, the only wand between the two of them.

 

They gathered their supplies and Draco watched Granger stow them away into her small beaded bag that looked no bigger than a Cornish pixie. Then they apparated away.

 

They landed heavier than ever, with Draco rolling on the ground and Granger with her breath coming hard.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked at the same time he asked the same question.

 

“Sorry,” she said, holding up a hand in a motion for him to give her a moment. “I can do this. It's just been a long day. Or yesterday was. They're starting to blend together, honestly.”

 

“How much mileage have you logged in the last twenty-four hours?”

 

“I'm not sure. This jump was the longest distance, over two hundred kilometres,” she said.

 

“Maybe I should do the apparating the next time,” he said uneasily. Except that would mean she had to let him use her wand, and he didn’t think she was willing to do that.

 

“I'm just out of practice for long-distance apparation, and I didn't exactly sleep well last night,” she said a trifle defensively. “And I think it's also the fact that it's unfamiliar territory or something. Saps up more energy. I mean, I did six or seven side-alongs in one day when I was in seventh year. Or was supposed to be.”

 

“Given that we're not on the run from dark wizards, I hardly think that would be necessary here,” he said dryly.

 

“Well, that’s why I wouldn’t be able to apparate you the long way through Israel and Europe,” she said.

 

“That's much too far to apparate over unfamiliar terrain and water,” Draco said. “I'd just as soon not be splinched in a foreign country, but thanks for the thought.”

 

“Anyway, there’s no next time,” she reminded him, standing bent over with her hands on her thighs. “We’ll have a portkey, right?”

 

“Tell me about the portkey you made before.”

 

“It was a backup,” she said after a while. “We didn't end up using it.”

 

“Merlin,” was all he could say, shaking his head.

 

“But it was a viable portkey, is what I'm saying. My technique was sound.”

 

He glanced at her, marveling at her optimism. She had done this precisely once before, but she was sure she could do it again. He hadn’t even been this optimistic when he had been handed the daunting task of fixing a Vanishing Cabinet his sixth year, and he had been far more arrogant to begin with.

 

The whole thing was starting to seem pretty crazy to him. “Maybe we should come up with a backup plan. Just in case the portkey isn't the easiest thing in the world to make. You know. _Just_ in case.”

 

“Don't be ridiculous. They have Ministry workers making them. Bureaucrats. How hard can it be?”

 

He stared at her with raised eyebrows. “You just... a moment ago, you said they were complicated enough that people weren't just making them at the drop off a hat.”

 

She fairly glowed with confidence. “At the Ministry, they have fail safes set in place. Formulas and protocols. I'm sure only a few people _really_ know the science behind them, and they go by specific formulas. It's nothing we can't do.”

 

She was completely contradicting herself, but if there was one thing Draco had learned over the years, it was to never contradict a witch with a trigger happy wand hand, and damned if he didn't know from personal experience how fast she could draw.

 

Lack of a backup plan wasn't Draco's normal _modus operandi_ , but then he wasn't exactly playing it safe here. When the portkey making failed, then he could make her see reason. Probably. He hoped they weren't going to die in Egypt. Of course, as it stood, there was a strong likelihood he'd die before her, whether or not he remained in Egypt, seeing as this portkey she was making could very well kill him as transport him. On the other hand, he had vowed after the end of the war that he'd do things that were antithetical to his nature, and taking risks like a bloody Gryffindor was tops on that list.

 

He rubbed both hands over his face. “What do you need me to do?” he asked finally.

 

“Climb,” she told him, and inclined her head towards the rocky mountain next to them.

 

“What the fuck, Granger?” he cried. “You couldn’t have apparated us to the top?”

 

“I couldn’t take the risk. I don’t remember it too well, and I couldn’t take the risk I’d be apparating us onto an unstable ledge, or someplace that no longer was standing. Plus, there are always people and tours up there. We have to climb it ourselves. Anyway, did you really want me to side-along apparate you up there?”

 

Draco held his middle and groaned. “Fine. Just...just give me a moment. We can't all be hopping on Pepper Up.”

 

She glanced at her watch and after about five minutes, she stood upright and brushed off the seat of her shorts, drawing his unwilling attention to her legs and bum. “Ready?”

 

He rose gingerly to his feet, not wanting to seem like a mummy’s boy in the face of her dauntless demeanour. He swiped the side of his jaw with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Let’s go. Do you need any help with that?” he asked, nodding at her bag.

 

“This thing?” she asked him with an incredulous frown.

 

He shrugged, now embarrassed at his chivalry. “It just...seems like it’d be really heavy. What with everything you’ve got stashed in there.” Just about the thickest thing he could have said. She was a freaking witch, by Merlin.

 

Her brow cleared. “Oh, it's quite an undetectable extension charm I've got on there. Otherwise I’d be stopped at airport security.” She laughed a little, although he had no idea what she was saying.

 

“What exactly have you got in there?” he asked.

 

“Books. Food. Water. We definitely will need our water. And our supplies.”

 

“I thought undetectable extension charms could only be used to extend geographical locations. Tents. Houses. Rooms. Things like that. And you have to apply for a permit,” he added.

 

Hermione shook her head. “Purebloods,” he thought she said with a roll of her eyes.

 

“ _Excuse_ me?” he said with not a small trace of acerbity.

 

She shook her head so that her curls swung around her face. “You and Ron and… it's just that all of you Purebloods grew up with magic and you follow what you've been taught like it's a manual. But magic has such a wide range of applications. I think maybe it's because I'm an outsider that people don't expect me to know these things and so I'm able to have free rein in doing all these spells that usually have rules.”

 

At the beginning of her explanation, he started out with a sneer on his face, because, really, who was she to look down on generations of power and magic? And second, who the fuck would compare him to Weasley? That was just...untenable.

 

But what she said strangely made sense. Nobody could ever accuse Granger and Potter of following rules, and yet, there the rest of them were, gape-mouthed and amazed whenever they did something nobody growing up in the wizarding world would have dreamed of doing. Seriously, breaking into Gringotts? _And_ the Ministry? _Twice_? No one ever thought such a thing possible.

 

Of course, no one thought Hogwarts was able to be breached either, but he didn’t want to think about that.

 

These little plots were probably the brain farts of Potter, but he was sure nobody believed he was behind the planning of them. The getting caught part, yes. But not the successful bits. Those were all Granger, and he'd bet his left nut on it. (Because when had Potter ever done well in Potions before that windbag Slughorn? Following any sort of rules seemed to be completely foreign to that pillock.)

 

It all made a sick sort of sense, but it only emphasised what he'd gradually come to realize, and what Granger had very succinctly put it earlier--he'd been raised like a trained dog. An _imperiused_ animal. He had never been encouraged to think independently or to do anything mildly creative or outside the box. The only person who had even _sort of_ encouraged him to do that had been sent to prison when he was a kid, and he couldn't vouch for her beliefs or sanity in any event.

 

“Let's go,” he said with grim determination on that particularly uplifting thought. “This mountain isn't going to climb itself.”

 

They were making their way steadily along a steep path up Mt. Sinai when Granger stopped and turned around. Draco followed suit and saw a golden brown edifice in the shape of a square with smaller shapes inside, much like a sandy fortress.

 

“There are so many Muggles here,” Draco said uneasily. “They can't all be here for the same reason we are.”

 

“No, that's Saint Catherine's Monastery down there, which is a pretty popular tourist spot,” she explained. “Funny story. This place is the location where the mother of Constantine the Great dreamt that Moses saw the burning bush. But logistically speaking, it can’t possibly be the spot, because this isn’t even the highest mountain in the region. Plus a host of other reasons why it’s probably not here but in Saudi Arabia.”

 

“Why’s that funny?”

 

“You know...because all these people make the pilgrimmage here thinking that it’s holy ground because it’s been politically made so and it’s not even holy for the reason they think it is...and it’s actually the spot for an older, pagan ritual…it’s ironic!” She laughed a little before glancing at his unamused expression and sighing. “Never mind. It’s actually quite amusing if you’re Muggle. Anyway, we’re going to be running into quite a number of Muggles out here because they believe this is holy ground.”

 

“At any other time, believe me, I would join you in sniggering at beleaguered fools. However, I'm not sure we're not one of them today. You're _positive_ this is foolproof?”

 

“It's the fastest way to get you home.”

 

Draco stared at the boulder-like stones that formed a steep staircase. “We're not really going to climb that, are we?”

 

“People usually come down this route, and nobody will be coming down at this time, just before sunset. It's also the fastest way up. We have to make it before the sun sets, otherwise we won't be able to see anything at all.”

 

That last line put a fire under Draco's feet. He stayed behind Granger should she slip, but she was in enviable shape and managed to do fine on her own.

 

“Let's take a short break,” she said when they managed to find a wide ledge. She dug into her bag and handed him a clear bottle of water. He took it without question and drank half of it in a gulp. Granger murmured an incantation to fill it up again. “Luckily, we can charm fresh water anytime, yeah? That definitely comes in handy on camping trips.”

 

“What I wouldn't give for a broom,” he muttered.

 

“If you had a broom, we wouldn't be in this predicament.”

 

“Let's just get this over with,” he said, and handed his water to her when she held out a hand for it before stowing it away. He just now realized that her luggage on the sailboat was clearly faked for the Muggles, and that everything she needed was in her bag.

 

“Here,” she said and muttered something that he recognized as being a muscle soothing charm.

 

“Thanks,” he said. He felt strangely revived.

 

“The water bottle had a few drops of revitalizing potion in it. I brought it as a backup,” she admitted.

 

“You drugged me, Granger?” he said, feigning outrage.

 

“You're welcome,” she returned cheekily.

 

After they moved on for a bit in silence, she piped up and asked, “So what's her name?”

 

“Who?” he replied.

 

Granger swiveled her head back to look at him. “The girl you're seeing. The Muggle.”

 

“Oh, right,” he said, his mind racing. His diabolical plan. Only it seemed like a stupid idea now, considering he was sure she would have helped him no matter what. She had tried to help him outside the bar, hadn't she? But he had been too immersed in old history to recognize it. “Um, Catherine,” he said, picking the first name that came to his mind, which also happened to be the name of the monastery below. “Cathy,” he corrected a scant second later.

 

“So, tell me about her.”

 

“Must we really do this now?” he asked plaintively.

 

“It'll take your mind off. Besides, I want to hear about this girl who's got Draco Malfoy willing to buck generations of tradition. She must be really special.”

 

“Er, right, she is,” he said after a while, hoping that his reticence would discourage her.

 

No such luck.

 

“So? What does she look like? You can tell me that at least?”

 

He tried to bring to mind a girl, the kind of girl he would fancy, but, Circe's left tit, the climbing had him completely out of breath. The only person who came immediately to his mind was the girl so energetically hiking in front of him. “She's, er, pretty fit. Good legs. I don’t know. What do you want me to say?” What the sodding hell was he saying? He had no idea.

 

Luckily she couldn't read his mind. Even with her back to him, he knew she was rolling her eyes. “Great description, Malfoy.”

 

“Look, what do you want from me? I didn't expect to like her, but sometimes it just happens, right?” he said, trying hard to describe falling in love and probably failing desperately. He tried harder. “She's crazy smart, easy on the eyes, has insane ideas what passes for fun, but you can't help who you like. Well, you can, but why would I want to? She's pretty fucking great.” He couldn't help his tone of voice, which was getting progressively more heated for reasons he couldn't put to words. To his horror, he realized that what he was describing could ostensibly be applied to the person in front of him, and that was simply unforgivable.

 

After all, it was no fun realizing that his description of a pretty awesome woman was someone who had been right in front of him for years and ironically also his long-time nemesis. But his “Muggle” was make-believe, so it wasn't as though he were talking about a _real_ person. That would sort of defeat the purpose of his rebellion and avowed vengeance on her head and, yeah, all that cobblers.

  


* * *

 

 

Hermione didn't know what she had expected when she started to probe him over his forbidden relationship. Maybe, in the back of her mind, she had a nagging suspicion it was all a lark and he had said it for a bit of a laugh.

 

As she turned to stare at him, she saw that Malfoy had stopped and was standing around trying to catch his breath. Clearly he didn’t do much hiking. He was pink in the face from their rigorous hike and a bit out of sorts. The sunburn glamour she had left had probably worn off long since, so his pinkness was undoubtedly due to their activity.

 

He glanced at her briefly before looking away. His annoyance at this line of question seemed out of place from their earlier camaraderie. And yet, it took away all doubt regarding his ill-fated romance. Surely, if he had been spinning her a yarn, he would be keen on embellishing it. He looked pretty annoyed. But surely men were used to being asked such personal questions by women? They really were incomprehensible creatures.

 

Hermione had, however, latched onto the bit where he said that his Muggle girlfriend was “crazy smart.” It made her heart skip a beat. Guys didn’t like it when girls knew more than they did, did they? Usually, when she started talking about obscure theories and ideas and all the books she'd read on the subject, most guys she knew cut her off.

 

It was just good to know that such a trait didn’t throw him off. Not that it did her any good or anything. It was just good to know. That was all.

 

But obviously, he still didn't consider them good enough friends to discuss anything so personal as his girlfriend.

 

That was fine. She had no reason to feel hurt about it. He had told her at the beginning that this trip didn't make them friends or anything; it was just a temporary truce all for the purpose of getting him out of his predicament. Slytherin to the last, after all, and just doing what he could to get what he wanted.

 

Maybe when they returned to England, he'd feel obligated to go back to sneering at her.

 

That thought stung.

 

“All right,” she said slowly. “I'm sorry for prying. It's none of my business.”

 

She heard him sigh and looked up.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, still not looking at her as he ran both hands through his hair before covering the bottom half of his face with one palm in what seemed like agitation. The apology seemed sincere if somewhat grumpy. “I shouldn't have blown up at you.”

 

It was strange how they went from a lifetime of hating each other and calling each other names to apologizing to each other at the drop off a hat. Maybe that was just what enforced proximity, necessary dependence, and teamwork did to you. She really had to recommend it to the Hogwarts professors for future reference.

 

Maybe Hogwarts should have enforced more interhouse activities instead of Quidditch games and the House Cup.

 

Maybe Malfoy was so agitated because her questioning just reinforced how helpless he felt at his parents’ strictures. This whole misbegotten trip of his was an effort to rebel in the first place.

 

“No, I shouldn't have pried,” she said nobly. “I guess you really do like her.” There was a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach as this realization came out. It was good, right? It was good that Draco Malfoy was so changed and _nicer_ , and if she felt a nagging regret that it was some random Muggle girl that effected this change, that was... well, that was just the activist part of her feeling that way, that was all.

 

“Well, that's what we're here for, to help you take a stand,” Hermione said brightly. “Any ideas how you plan to tell father dearest?”

 

He mumbled something under his breath about how “that should turn out well,” and stayed silent.

 

“And more to the point, do you plan on telling her about your background?” Hermione thought that was a clever way of finding out if the relationship was serious. Not that she cared about the answer or anything. She was just making small talk.

 

“It's not even that serious,” he muttered, answering her unspoken question and marching up ahead of her on the upward path. When he passed her, she saw there was a ferocious frown on his face as he huffed and puffed, or it could have been because of the sun on his face and not because of her line of interrogation. “It's just a…recently rediscovered and probably short-lived infatuation. It won't even last.”

 

She caught up with him and handed him the sunblock and a hat. He crammed it on his head without even murmuring a protest and squirted out a dollop of sunscreen before smearing it all over his face. She had never before seen him so human and out of sorts. Plus, he appeared so spry and athletic, and here she was, making the hike with far more ease than he was. He clearly spent too much time flying around on his broom instead of getting traditional exercise.

 

“Wait,” she said, focusing on the last thing he said. “Recently rediscovered?” she repeated. “Sounds like you've been carrying quite a torch for her for some time now. Have you met her before or something?” A small voice in the back of her mind told her to mind her own business, but Hermione squashed the voice like a bug. Fact-finding was a lifelong pursuit, after all.

 

“No, I--” he broke off, looking even pinker and more flustered. “Just, do we have to do this now? Let's just concentrate on making it to the top, shall we? You can interrogate me all you want later.”

 

They fell into silence after that, and Hermione thought how strange life was, and how she had started the week reading of the felucca trip she would take down the Nile and now, a few days later, was climbing Mt. Sinai with the last person she would have expected.

 

After several moments of climbing in silence, he asked, “How do you know this area so well?”

 

“My dad's a history buff,” she replied. “Muggle history. We did a whole tour of the area a few years after the war because I had to do something to make it up to them. Anyway, my dad wanted to come here.” They had done the Nile cruise and enjoyed it quite a lot, but she had seen the sailboats and wondered what it would be like to float down the Nile in one of those. Now she knew. It contained a lot of inconveniences like peeing in bushes.

 

“And you saw Luxor in all its magical glory, I suppose?”

 

“Well, only a half day of it, while my parents visited the tombs. But, yes, I suppose I did. Wizards in Egypt are…well, I don't know if this is completely accurate of everyone in Egypt, but they wear those same white long tunics, but with colorful belts and neckpieces, just what you would imagine Cleopatra doing. They had headpieces showing their mentor or school of thought, like for example, someone from Sobek’s line would have a crocodile on their headpiece. It was kind of cool.”

 

“Not so different from us, then.”

 

“Oh, well... no, I guess not.”

 

“What about flying carpets? Did you see any of that?”

 

He sounded eager and almost wistful.

 

“Not as many as they would have you believe. I think it might be expensive to manufacture now. Anyway, we can’t do that, remember? They’re illegal in England, we can’t get the money to buy one, and plus, it would take us much too long to travel all that distance.”

 

“I’m aware! I was just asking.”

 

“And they genie lamp it to get around. Or whatever they call it here. Like that one guy we saw.”

 

“Granger,” he said, holding up a hand and planting both feet on the ground. “Hold on just one minute. Maybe we should be investing our time into doing _that_ instead of traversing vertically into what has got to be a different dimension.”

 

“I know even less about travel by genie lamps than making a portkey,” she admitted.

 

He snorted. “I thought you knew everything.”

 

“No, not yet,” she said, so serious that he snorted again.

 

“And what do you mean genie lamps? River genies don't need lamps.”

 

“It's a… Never mind.”

 

“Let me guess, a Muggle thing?”

 

“Yes, actually.”

 

“And I wouldn't understand it, I suppose? Granger, you're a snob.”

 

“I...what? I am not!”

 

“You are. Yeah, things changed after the war, but you needn't be quite so uppity about Muggle _things._ Haven't you considered that since the war ended, there's been a change in the winds?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You really don't get out much, do you? Don't you know of the new Muggle souvenir shop that opened up?”

 

“Yes, but it sells things that are basically trash _.”_

 

“Most wizards don't know anything about Muggle things. You could make a fortune with this new trend. After all, you could quite possibly be the only person to make Muggle culture _in_.”

 

“I… think that was a compliment,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

 

“You and Potter, I mean,” he equivocated. “Or whatever,” he floundered, looking annoyed when she laughed at him. “Shut up. Gods alive, we're here. I can't believe it.”

 

“It's really not even that high of a mountain,” she said. “It's the heat that usually gets people. But they don't have cooling charms like we have. Oh dear, I didn’t put one on you, did I?”

 

She laughed as he glared at her. After a few moments of the two of them staring the view in silence, she straightened.

 

“This way,” she said, leading then away from the rest of the crowd. “We're not going to the peak. We're going to the opposite end. That's where the ley lines intersect. _That's_ where the shrines were. These ancient tribes knew a lot more about magic than anyone gave them credit for.” She gave him a pointed look. “We’re still doing this, right?”

 

“Yes, I suppose so. Stick with what we know and all that,” he said grumpily. “And I’ve already climbed this far up. Godric’s hangnails, let's just hope this doesn't take too long.”

 

“Shouldn't you stick with your own house with epithets?”

 

“No. That's the whole point of epithets. Try it. Name a magical person.”

 

“Um, Artemisia Lufkin...what?” she said when he raised his eyebrows. “She was the first female Minister of Magic.”

 

“I said nothing,” Malfoy replied, holding up his hands. “We’ve established I am all for female empowerment, remember? Now name a body part.”

 

“Adam’s apple. Sternum. Eyeballs.”

 

“Right,” he drew out the word. “Why those, exactly?”

 

“Most vulnerable spots in a fight.”

 

“Merlin. I'm glad you only ever broke my nose.”

 

“I was in a war! I studied up on this. You know. Just in case.”

 

“Again, I'm glad you only broke my nose. Now an adjective.”

 

“Defective. Vulnerable.”

 

“Again, not what I was going for. Put them all together.”

 

“Artemisia's defective Adam's apple?” she said hesitantly.

 

“There you go. A one of a kind swear word. A bit disturbing, but, there you go.”

 

Hermione laughed. “I like it,” she decided.

 

They had reached the opposite end of the mount, the top of which was a rocky, uneven plateau.

 

“This is one of the places in the world with five intersections,” she whispered to him, feeling the thrum of ancient magic reverberate through the rocks.

 

For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two people left in the world.

 

A strange thought came to Hermione that should that prove to be the case, she wouldn’t mind in the least.

 

And that scared her more than anything that had happened so far.


	9. Chapter 9

While Hermione was having her less than pleasant epiphany about one of the most formerly unlikable chaps in the world, Malfoy was going about knocking on every rockface around them. He didn’t seem particularly impressed about where they were standing.

 

The other part of Hermione not being completely befuddled by conflicting emotions was quivering with excitement. She had studied up on the concept of portkeys years ago, just before they went on the Horcrux run, and always had some niggling regret she never got to test her theoretical knowledge. Now was her chance.

 

“It's definitely here,” Malfoy said. “It's marked with petroglyphs and it fairly hums with magic.”

 

“Some say powerful wizards are conceived in just such places,” she said, nodding. Then she rolled her eyes when he raised his eyebrows at her. “I meant just that it would be an interesting study to quantify the power of the wizard to the place of, well, the place of conception. Oh, you know I didn't mean it like that!”

 

“You’re blushing.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Granger, we witnessed a fairly extreme fertility ritual together. Afterwards, you discussed lopping male genitalia off with rather disturbing and sanguine equilibrium. Don’t tell me now that discussing conception locations is making you all giggly,” he said.

 

Instead of responding, Hermione busied herself with placing each object on the marked place and casting a diagnostic charm. He was right, of course. There was no good reason why she was feeling so... _ off _ suddenly. Thankfully, he followed suit and turned his attention to something other than baiting her.

 

She was vaguely aware of Malfoy digging out the objects from her bag and wandlessly  _ accio _ ’ing any items that didn't immediately leap into his grip: a light bulb, a ripped nylon velcro wallet, a sock, a pencil, a belt, a discarded plastic toy, all stuffed in a plastic bag. She had made sure to get a selection of different materials.

 

“The sock,” she said.

 

“You couldn’t use the  _ accio _ for that?” he replied, grimacing as he handed her the discarded and grubby sock. “Wonderful. Luckily for me, it's far from being the most unhygienic thing I've touched all day.”

 

“You can scourgify yourself all you want after we're back in England.”

 

“Yes, I grew up on cleaning spells,” he said and when she looked askance on him, he shrugged and explained, “My mum has a bit of a fixation with cleanliness.”

 

Her eyes flickered across his face as she recalled his pristine appearance all throughout school years, how the girls had fawned over his looks as much as Ron had made fun of him for being a vain ponce. He didn't look clean and manicured now. His hair was even less blond, from when he ran his fingers through them with less than the cleanest hands. He sported a light stubble along his jaw that was darker than his hair, being slightly golden, and there was a scratch on one of his cheeks. That was not to speak of the ratty condition of his clothes. And yet, he had never looked more attractive to her in her life.

 

It was an unwelcome thought and she blinked at the realization. Unwelcome because never in her life had she entertained such a thought about this wizard. Loathsome, hateful, irritating, bullying--there had been any number of adjectives she could have applied to him over the years, but  _ attractive _ had never counted in the list.

 

Unwelcome because for the first time since the flashes of pity she had felt for him intermittently in the years leading up to the war, she saw that there was someone else underneath the unpleasantness. 

 

Unwelcome because just because he intrigued her didn't mean that it was reciprocated. 

 

Unwelcome because he was taken and there was just that small portion of her that found that a pity.

 

There were so many things she had discovered about him that had surprised and amused her in turn. He might be a opportunistic cowardly git, but there was also more to him than just that. 

 

There were so many things she felt he hadn't said, and yes, so many things that she still wanted to know about him. There was more to the person she had equal parts despised and tolerated in school. And despite herself, she wanted to know more about this new person.

 

_ Malfoy _ , she wanted to say,  _ could I get to know you better, once we're back in England? I don't have a crush on you or anything, that would be silly. We've spent a few days together after a lifetime of mutual name-calling, that’s all. It probably means nothing at all. Only what I've learned of you today is someone that I want to get to know better. I’ve found that underneath all your irritating posturing in the past that you were just a lonely boy who didn’t know the meaning of rebelling. All this time, we’ve made judgements about the other based on things entirely beyond our control. And, yes, I know you're seeing someone and you really like her and she's really lucky, but--well, never mind because it's not as though our paths will ever cross once we go back. It's just that it's such a pity that I'll never get a chance… _

 

“You're staring at me,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Shouldn't we, and by we, I really mean you, get going with this? We don't want Muggles coming across us and screaming bloody murder.”

 

“Er, right,” she said, looking away from him. She was losing her bloody mind. 

 

“Which place has the most? You know, if I ever were planning for world domination,” he said, throwing her a smirk.

 

Hermione sought for the original thread of conversation. 

 

“Funny,” she said finally, half a beat too long. “Luckily, most places are practically unreachable. Mount Everest has one. Seven intersections.”

 

She was rambling, which she had a tendency to do when she was discomfited. She was discomfited now.

 

“Bermuda Triangle,” she continued.  “The Challenger Deep. The poles. Many of the mountain ranges have at least four or more intersections.” God, it wasn't stopping, was it? “And you need to have at least three to create a long-distance portkey, which is why they're so expensive in the first place. And they have to be at an exact location on all three axis. That means--” 

 

“I know what it means, Granger. I was in class with you when Professor Vector covered astromancy. Although maybe I should have sat in front of you and raised my hand every three seconds so that you remembered my presence.”

 

His words would once have set her back up, but now she recognized it for what it was--his own particular brand of humor.

 

She pulled a face and took a deep breath. “I was pretty annoying as a teen, wasn't I?” she said and could have bitten her tongue off the moment that comment slipped out. It was a comment she could have said amongst her friends with no fear of reprisal, but this was  _ Malfoy _ . He would rip her to pieces and it would hurt. 

 

After a moment of silence, he spoke and she was relieved beyond measure when his response was surprisingly mild in nature. “Everyone’s fairly disgusting as children. Some of us grow out of it. Others stay ginger forever, for example.”

 

She ignored his dig at her friends. His enmity with them was still a reflex with him, no matter how much ground they had broken together. “It was just that everything was so new and exciting,” she said to the horizon. “I finally had an explanation for who I was, and I wasn't just some...freak who didn't play well with others. Except, I don't know--I guess I still was. Or am,” she said, thinking of her work place issues.

 

It must've been the ley lines, she told herself. These weren't things she dwelt on or talked about out loud. She wasn't one for brooding and ruminating over regrets or talking about feelings. But it was also because she never had anyone to share things with. She had been an only child, and then sent to boarding school where she thought she would make lots of interesting, close friends. She had, of course, only they were boys, and there were only so much you could discuss with boys who had not one interest in common with you. 

 

It also didn't help that one of those boys was essentially Atlas reborn, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the other someone so easygoing and simple that most things flew over his head without a blip on his radar.

 

And then, she was propelled head-first into a full-scale war which effectively cancelled out any hope she had of making those close personal soulmate girl friends, since her blood status was suddenly a killing offense.

 

She hadn't realized it until now, but she still was fairly lonely, and those cows at work hadn't made her life any easier.

 

“Sometimes,” she said slowly. “I do think about returning to a Muggle life. My parents want me to, you know--after, well, after everything that happened. And it would be easier, not dealing with other types of prejudice.”

 

He was looking at her with an expression that seemed like alarm.

 

“Not right this minute, of course, don't worry. I'll see you home, Malfoy,” she said, going up to him to elbow him in the side. “I'll even walk you to your front door.”

 

“Charming. As to everything else you've just said, have you ever considered that you're the lucky one in all this? Consider this, you can hack it in both worlds. Don't you reckon your options are just a tad more open than mine are, for example?”

 

“Well, that's new,” she said. “I never thought I'd see the day when Draco Malfoy told me  _ I'm _ the lucky one.”

 

“Quite so. And who'll be there to show us up if Hermione Granger left the wizarding world? Anyway, we're all freaks, in some way or another. Why should you get to be special?”

 

“Thanks for the pep talk,” she said, suppressing a smile.

 

“What pep talk?” he denied, affecting nonchalance.

 

Hermione shook her head to hide her smile, bending over to prepare for the next step. 

 

She cast a spell that shot out yellow rays of lights in eight directions until one of the lines turned orange and then red.

 

“There it is. The Ras Safsafa ley,” she murmured to herself, following the line of light to the point where it glowed the reddest. She lifted her head and smiled at Malfoy, whose eyes were wide. “I can't believe it's really here.”

 

“What _ is _ that spell?” he asked in a hushed voice.

 

“ _Linea_ _portus_ ,” she replied, crouching down to mark the spot with her wand. Then, she dug into her bag and drew out one of her books. Transpositis: Io Ergo Sum.

 

After a moment of staring at the glowing compass of lines until they slowly faded away, he took the book from her.

“Transposition: I go, therefore I am?” he said, flipping through the tome. “It's in Ancient Latin, Granger. I thought you didn't know Latin.”

 

“I had to cast a translation charm to read it,” she admitted. “I'm not as fluent in languages as you are.”

 

“You weren't so bad at Ancient Runes,” he said absently. “This book must be incredibly rare.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The section on ley lines is written in hieroglyphs.”

 

“Actually, it's Ancient Sumerian.”

 

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. “And how were you able to decipher it? Last I knew, Hogwarts didn't exactly offer a comprehensive Ancient Languages program.”

 

“I wanted to read more books than what was offered in the Germanic languages,” she said, shrugging. “I found someone in the Ministry who was able to give me a crash course.”

 

“Granger, you know that most people who work at the lower levels are supposed to be drones. You're not fulfilling your half of the bargain there.”

 

“Ha-ha.”

 

He returned the book to her. “No plans for aiming any higher on the Ministry totem pole?”

 

Hermione heaved a sigh. “To be honest, you've been right about it all along. I'm a little burnt out, to be honest. Like you said, office politics isn't really my thing.”

 

“It never was your thing, if I recall.”

 

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy.”

 

“You've really kept yourself busy these years,” he observed. “I hope to Merlin nobody ever  _ crucios  _ you and dissects that swotty head of yours.”

 

She gave a short laugh at the irony of that. “They've already tried.”

 

Their eyes met. Hermione felt a moment's regret at her words. Their contentious past seemed a slightly verboten subject for them. Now she had gone and ruined everything.

 

“Granger, I…” Malfoy said slowly. “That should never have happened.”

 

Or maybe not.

 

“Don't worry about it,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. “Here, I'm going to cast the spell. I think the sock seems to be the object that resonates most with this ley intersection.”

 

“No, listen,” he said and stopped her turning away from him by holding onto her wrist.

 

It was the first time he had voluntarily touched her. When her eyes snapped to his hand, he let go immediately.

 

“That day, at the Manor,” Malfoy said haltingly and then exhaled.

 

She waited.

 

“Aunt Bella, she…” Malfoy said, as though trying to talk through a lump in his throat. “She was kind to me when we were younger. She was beautiful, you know, just lovely and full of laughter. She was older than my father and perhaps one of a few select witches he respected. 

 

“She intervened for me on more than one occasion, when my father thought I hadn't done well with my tutor or if I'd misbehaved. She would always cut him off in the midst of one of his lectures and say, ‘Don't be so stuffy, Lucy. Don't you remember being a boy yourself or was that too long ago?’ Then she would give me a sweet and tell me to not worry too much about my parents’ rules.” 

 

Hermione stared. Never in her entire life had she imagined Draco Malfoy would share something so personal with her. Never in her life had she envisaged that this was the history he shared with one of the most powerful and crazy Death Eaters under Voldemort's sway.

 

Once he started, it seemed he couldn't stop either. In the back of her head, Hermione wondered if something about this place was compelling them into word vomit. She should have been aghast at the things that spilled from her mouth just a short while ago. She should be trying to uncover the possibilities of such a magically powerful place, but none of that seemed as urgent to her as listening to what Malfoy was keen to share with her.

“She used to tell me she thought of me as her child, because--I don’t know, maybe because she couldn't have any. She said I had grey eyes, which was the Black family trait. She went to Azkaban when I was little and when she came out, she was a different person. Mad. Angry. So full of anger. But she had never done anything like that, at least not in front of me. How do you rebel against someone you've always liked and been taught to respect?” He gave a short, unamused laugh as he gave voice to the internal conflicts she never knew existed. “I should have--” A deep breath. “I should have intervened. I’m sorry.”

 

She could almost picture it in her head--a small blond boy being scolded by his father and running to his laughing aunt, who would sneak him a sweet. It was an endearing image, and not even the strange notion that it was Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange in those roles took away from its poignancy. Perhaps it was all the more so, because they were people she had never equated as being vulnerable or loving. The confession of such a personal memory to someone like her, who had every reason to despise them, won her forgiveness entirely. He wasn't the only one to know about sadness and loss and internal conflicts and deep-rooted regrets.

 

Hermione found it hard to breathe. Their eyes met. They were so close that she could see Malfoy's eyes were grey, with flecks of hazel and green around the pupils and that his lashes were brown, tipped in gold. His eyes were awash with the regrets of the past and turbulent with unsaid things. 

 

Somehow, there was something incredibly personal about being so near a person that one knew exactly what colors their eyes were. Hermione swallowed through a knot in her throat.

 

“I think,” she said slowly, her heart pounding away, “that was just about the nicest thing you could have ever said to me.”

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said, turning away from her. “I’m never nice to you.”

 

“Malfoy.”

 

Now he was the one to pull a face as he turned back around to face her. His expression was one trying to close himself off, but not succeeding entirely.

 

Spontaneously, she reached out and grabbed his hand. He flinched briefly at her touch but he didn't pull away. Later, she would blush at how forward she was, at touching someone who had once jeered at her uncleanness. But at this very moment, it seemed right, fitting. They were alone in the world in this barren landscape, and if they should die in the next hour, it was only right that they should confess their sins to one another. To stand hand in hand before facing judgement.

 

“I don’t blame you for anything you did during the war. We were all trying to survive. As for the bad blood between us… I’d say we’re all products of our upbringing.”

 

“I don’t…” His hand shifted and then tightened on her fingers. “You know that I don’t believe in those things anymore, right?” There was an intensity to him that hadn't been present earlier. His eyes were unblinking and focused on hers. She felt the world shrink to just him in her vision.

 

Her mouth pulled up on one side. “I guess I can't go around calling you a bigot anymore then, either.”

 

He half exhaled and half laughed. And then chuckled.

 

“Although, frankly, it was about time your eyes were opened,” she tacked on, trying to infuse levity into the situation.

 

“Really, Granger?” he said, rolling his eyes.  “A lecture? Is that really in the spirit of forgiveness and interhouse unity?”

 

She laughed. It was a genuine laugh, with her head thrown back. 

 

“Anyway, you did your best,” she went on, always one to beat a dead horse. “Given the circumstances. It wasn't your fault your aunt recognized me. You even tried to intervene with... her. I appreciated it, you know. So...there you go. It's war. There are heroes on both sides, even if nobody acknowledges them.”

 

There was a new light in his eyes now, something that had replaced the melancholy that she now realized had been there since she had bumped into him again. It was the expression of someone who had been searching for absolution and found it. 

 

Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She was deeply thankful that whatever his problems, they had been directed to this place. Never in her life would she have considered that Draco Malfoy would have wanted anything from her, and that something would be forgiveness. And that, in itself, was a sort of magic in itself.

 

She turned away from him to hide how flustered she was.

 

“Erm, okay, maybe we should get going with this. The sun's about to set on us but according to my calendar, there will be a full moon, so that's good.” She was rambling again, to cover up how unsettled she was.

 

“Go for it,” he said, one side of his mouth tilted up in his signature smirk.

 

Hermione practiced the wand movements a few times before she approached the sock. Then, taking a deep breath, she muttered the words and the destination that would cause the  _ portus  _ spell to take.

 

Then she turned around and shrugged. “I think that's it.”

 

“I think it took,” he said.

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“It glowed, so you did  _ something.  _ We just don't know if it'll kill us or worse.”

 

“Ever the optimist,” she said, grinning a little, riding on the high from performing a new spell. “Well, there's no time limit. We should step forward and just touch it and with any luck, be in the midst of Diagon Alley.”

 

“Right,” he said with a nod. “Here goes.” He reached forward with a tentative hand.

 

Then he hesitated and turned back to her. 

 

“Wait,” Malfoy said. “Granger, I just--wanted to thank you for helping me. I don't know how many people would have just walked in the opposite direction. Well, actually, I do know. Most of them, I reckon. But... _ you _ went out of your way, even though I really was the most miserable bastard to you for years and years. I just--well, I have no words.”

 

It was a beautiful apology and expression of gratitude, made even more beautiful by its total lack of eloquence from someone who had always been slightly too glib. Hermione swallowed hard. It was just much to take in on top of everything else he had already shared that she found her pulse pounding at double the tempo.

 

First, the revelation about his aunt and an apology. Now an expression of gratitude that, as far back as she had ever known him, he had never evinced. Maybe the ley lines were pulsing with extra potency today, but they hadn't caused her to say anything that hadn't been what she felt wholeheartedly.

 

And if so...what she learned about him today that had completely overturned the privileged, entitled poncey image she had of him for years. The idea of him growing up lonely and stifled under a control freak of a father with very strict educational goals for his son, an overprotective mother who had a cleaning obsession, and a fun-loving aunt who turned into a mad fanatic bound for Azkaban. These were all things she had never expected and had never bothered to learn.

 

She--all of them--had been too quick to judge and condemn this man standing in front of her now, just because he had been privileged with material goods and blessed with exceedingly good genes. No one had bothered to go out of their way to find that there was some good buried deep,  _ deep _ beneath the sarcastic front. 

 

Whether it was the ley lines or something else, she no longer cared. She liked him. She, Hermione Granger, genuinely liked Draco Malfoy, and wouldn't that just set the cat among the pigeons.

 

_ So say it _ , she told herself.  _ What do you have to lose? _

 

Only her utter and complete pride, she realized, his faceless girlfriend reappearing at the edge of her conscience.

 

“Well, you still have plenty of opportunity,” she quipped. “After all, you still need to pay me back for the felucca trip.”

 

The words for suggesting dinner as repayment were on the tip of her tongue, but she saw the moment her words came out that she had said the wrong thing. His face closed up at once. “Of course,” he said formally. “A Malfoy is always good for money.” There was no inflexion in his words but she thought he sounded ironic.

 

“Malfoy, I--”

 

“C’mon, Granger, the sun's just about set. Let's get our arses back where they belong, hmm?”

 

_ It doesn't matter _ , Hermione told herself, although part of her winced at the expression that had crossed his face.  _ Here has a girlfriend… Even though he said they're not serious...Well, we've got plenty of opportunity after we land. International travel, it's pretty draining. We'll probably grab a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. Who knows, maybe we could become friends for real. Stranger things have happened.  _ Her head was spouting confusing lines of logic and emotion at the same time.

 

It came to her that their conversation in Cairo had inadvertently set the rolling stone in motion--she would no longer be a passive participant in her own love life. In the back of her mind, the hysterical thought came to her that her first item of action in terms of female empowerment in the mating arena would be for the purpose of chasing down one Draco Malfoy. Wasn't this goal an ironic end to her Egyptian trip?

 

She nodded and they both stepped forward in sync to reach for the lone black sock on the stone block.

 

Their hands, however, never reached the block as several sudden whooshing sounds prompted them backwards.

 

Within seconds, they were surrounded as figure after figure appeared out of thin air and materialized in a circle around them. To a one, they all wore white robes and a mask.

 


	10. Chapter 10

She heard Malfoy curse, and the first thing that struck her was that it wasn't one of his funny epithets, but a real one, with anger and a little panic behind it.

 

They were surrounded by wizards, and for the briefest, hysterical moment, she thought the Death Eaters had risen up and captured her again. Traditional robes. Masks. The signature druidic circular formation. All designed to raise the hair on the back of her neck.

 

She felt Malfoy grab her shoulders and they tussled for a bit as she attempted to push him behind her. After all, she was the one with a wand.

 

He won.

 

“What the bloody hell?” he was saying, slower and with less vehemence. A bit stagey. “Hey, Hermione, look what's happening. Is this a performance of some kind?”

 

His hand reached down and found hers, squeezing twice in a grip so hard that she wanted to pull away.

 

He wanted her to play along. “Er, I don't know, Mal--Draco. It might be?” Oh, God, she sounded so fake. He was side-eyeing her with a longsuffering expression on his face and she smiled weakly. She sounded like she was the straight man for a comedic duo. A really bad comedic duo. He was right--she really was bad at this. Completely out of practice.

 

“What's going on?” he asked, shoving her behind him (and succeeding this time) in a tough, that's-my-gal act.

 

The robed and masked men really freaked her out. There was something so dehumanizing about masks. Except, yes, she realized that they all had the same headdresses, of which a falcon head in profile featured in the center. They were very different from what they had seen in the ritual at Luxor.

 

“The Sons of Horus,” she squeaked, and felt Malfoy start and his hand was then squeezing hers so tightly in warning that she winced in pain.

 

One figure that Hermione saw was wearing a gold sash around his middle. He pronounced something and gestured towards them. Two other figures bowed slightly and circled them.

 

If only they could reach the portkey, Hermione thought. But she couldn't guarantee that they would touch it at the same time. Portkey travel wasn't like apparation; they both had to be touching it at the same time for it to work, and she couldn't risk being whisked away and leaving Malfoy behind. Maybe she could cast a _reducto_ , except that would probably get her in very bad trouble. Or maybe they were a troupe of actors. She blamed this all on Paxton; if she had had more time to plan this trip, she would've been better prepared.

 

She was panicking; she could feel it happening.

 

“Wait,” commanded Malfoy, and for a moment, the two figures stopped in their tracks before moving forward again.

 

And then Malfoy said something in a different language.

 

* * *

 

Granger was panicking.

 

He could feel it.

 

He was too, but to a lesser degree. The thing to do, obviously, was to _accio_ the fucking portkey to them. There was a slim chance they'd both touch it at the same time. They were holding hands, after all. Or Draco could catch it. Granger could apparate away since she still had a wand.

 

Except she wasn't using her wand and it definitely wasn't in her hand. He had no idea where she had stowed her wand, but she had completely frozen.

 

There was no good reason for tussling with her for dominance, he realized a scant second after he had thrust her behind him, except that he was sure she was about to do something insane instead of brazening it out and get themselves into worse trouble. For a mad moment, he considered that maybe she was the reason Harry Potter was always in trouble. There was a _pulse_ to her, the kind that went before really impetuous actions.

 

With the way his luck was going, he'd be caught in the crossfire and make a fun tale to relate back home. For others, that was, since he'd be dead.

 

A second after that, he decided he was a bloody idiot, because of the two of them, she was the one who had gone head to head with one of the head Death Eaters and won while his greatest achievement was _not_ succeeding at the first and only assignment he had ever been given in his days as a cult follower. That was followed by the slightly hysterical notion that he might not be as smart as he always thought he was, which was also a ruddy ridiculous thought.

 

And as previously demonstrated, he understood not a word of Arabic or ancient Egyptian. He had, however, a working knowledge of several magical languages. “Wait!” he said in Greek. Later, it struck him as strange that he wouldn't try Latin first, as that was the language he had heard in Luxor.

 

The leader in a gold sash paused. Draco noticed inconsequentially that his apparel had seen better days, and his sandals were decidedly scuffed.

 

The two lackeys approaching them didn't stop, though, and then the worst thing to happen happened. A hex flew through the air and both he and Granger fell to the ground, completely stunned and frozen by a _petrificus totalus._

 

“The language of our oppressors,” the man wearing the gold sash said in Greek. “Set this man loose, Samid, so that he can speak.”

 

Draco was prepared for invisible bonds after the _petrificus totalus_ had been taken off, but he had no wand. Hermione had a wand, but she was unable to use it. And honestly, where on earth had she stowed it? It had been _right there_ in her hand, but he knew from their grappling that it was nowhere immediately apparent.

 

“Who are you?” Gold Sash asked him, a wand flashing in front of Draco's nose in gruesome replay of some of the hairier moments of his life.

 

Draco considered his options. If he played this off as a Muggle, they risked being obliviated and incapacitated. Also, there was bound to be a Muggle repelling ward, so Gold Sash would know they weren't normal tourists anyway. He didn't like it, but he considered honesty to probably be the safest option here. Undoubtedly Granger could think of a better solution if she weren't imitating a statue.

 

“We’re from abroad,” he said.

 

“Wizards, too,” Gold Sash replied, gesturing towards him with his wand in a way that made him completely tense. “Otherwise the wards would have rebounded. This is too much of a coincidence, though, isn't it?”

 

“Not at all,” Draco said quickly. “This place is famous. Lunar rites and all that.” Damn, he should have paid more attention in divination.

 

“Do you know who we are?” Gold Sash asked.

 

“Sons of Horus?” he ventured. And then he got suspicious when Gold Sash turned to his companions and laughed, saying something he couldn't understand.

 

“You are right,” Gold Sash said solemnly, turning back to him. “And we are oppressors of the innocent.”

 

“Er,” Draco said, getting a really bad feeling. “We're just visitors, so perhaps you could just let us go.”

 

“Where are you from?” Gold Sash asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

 

“England,” Draco replied and watched with alarm as Gold Sash’s hand tightened on the wand.

 

“Look,” Draco said in a placating tone. “Most people in England have never heard of Sons of Horus. If you are truly oppressors of the innocent, wouldn't it be better to let us go so that we can increase your renown? Create more fear?” That was what all these masked groups wanted anyway.

 

“That is a good point,” Gold Sash said. “What about her? Your woman?”

 

“What, her?” Draco said, making a pshaw face in an attempt to draw their attention away from Granger (and her wand). “I could do better.” His chivalry didn't work that well with his current raggedy appearance and he could tell Gold Sash also thought he was overdoing it.

 

“Then why do you protect her?”

 

“I didn't,” Draco denied. “I thought she was going to do something stupid or something. She's like my parole officer.”

 

“The Sons of Horus believe women can possess magic, but that is a ridiculous notion. Only men are warriors,” Gold Sash said.

 

That was confusing. So was this man opposing what his group believed? This all jarred with the impression they had gotten in Luxor, which was of women very clearly holding all the power, but Draco couldn't be surprised. He had only found it surprising that more men hadn't staged an uprising at the ritual he witnessed. Also Draco couldn't wait to tell Granger about this latest development--that was, if they made it out alive. Draco blinked. “So you are an offset of the Sons of Horus or something?”

 

“We are the Sons of Horus!” the man barked out. “We shall set you both free to spread our ill intent. You because you are a man, and that woman, even though she has stolen what does not belong to her. But first, you must turn over your wand.”

 

“I lost it,” Draco said. “No, I really did. That's why I look so terrible.”

 

“Search him,” Gold Sash ordered his men, and when they didn't move, reiterated his order in their language.

 

Draco's impression of incompetence deepened. Then followed a very thorough but quick searching, because Draco didn't have anything on him. He refrained from saying _I told you so._

 

“What about her?” Gold Sash asked.

 

“Why do you say that it's ridiculous women cannot possess magic?” Draco asked to distract the other man.

 

Gold Sash looked pleased to be asked. “Because women are the weaker vessel, naturally. Women should defer to men in all matters of greater import, and magic requires decision making of a kind that is best left to the stronger sex.”

 

Draco listened without an expression crossing his face. He even nodded once to create the impression of acquiescence. Inside, however, he was both reevaluating his impression of this group. Women the weaker vessel indeed. Draco wondered what they would think if they ever met his mother, who manipulated men in ways they didn't even understand. Or Bellatrix Lestrange. Or Pansy. Or any slew of women he knew, all of whom were capable of doing ball-busting things, wand or no wand.

 

The witch behind him also, making grunting sounds in her throat in a poor attempt to tell him what to do, although she wasn't currently at her best. And were these imbeciles not aware of the witches currently reenacting the emasculation and reattachment of a major organ several hundred kilometers away in Luxor? Or were they a completely different group?

 

“Also, we're a poor organization, so I'm compelled to relieve you of some of your possessions.”

 

Poor? Draco wanted to protest, remembering the jeweled penis pendants the witches in Luxor had worn.

 

Another motion and Gold Sash’s minion came to take Draco's shoes. “Are you serious?” Draco groused. “I need my shoes!”

 

“Yes, but these are very high quality dragon-hide shoes. Your belt too. I'm sorry, my friend.”

 

“Can't you leave me anything?” Draco asked. “A pair of slippers or something. How am I supposed to get down from this mountain?” He was supposed to be happy they were sparing his life, but seriously now, have a care for his daily needs here.

 

Gold Sash growled. “Fine, we'll leave you something.”

 

Then he made another motion, and Draco felt himself moved to the side. “Now, your female friend.”

 

Granger, finding herself freed from the _petrificus totalus_ and bound by ropes like him, looked terrified. “Malfoy, what the hell is going on?” she yelled.

 

He winced. They were going to find her wand and her bottomless bag of goodies. Then they were really going to be stuck here. “Granger, I'm really-- _really_ sorry about this,” he said, shaking his head.

 

Her mouth made an O and then she started struggling in earnest.

 

“Just, just give it to them,” he said with resignation.

 

“Like hell I will!” she screeched. “Damn you, Malfoy!”

 

And then followed a litany of curses with a fluency that surprised him.

 

Gold Sash grimaced. “Your friend is not the quiet type, is she?” he said and flicked his wand. Granger continued to twist and yell, but now no sounds emanated from her mouth.

 

One minion approached warily and attempted to take Granger's bag from her, and she aimed an ineffectual kick at him. He skirted away, along with Granger's things.

 

“Now, as a kindly last token, since you are but visitors to my country, Zafar will transport you down the mountain.”

 

Gold Sash muttered a few things to another minion, one who towered over them, nodded to them and bowed. Draco found his arm grasped, and Granger, kicking and screaming in silence, was also jerked forward, and they were all zipped away.

 

They landed at the foot of the mountain.

 

“Don't come back,” growled the giant in halting English, and threw something at Draco, before apparating away.

 

Draco glanced down at his hands, which had caught the ratty pair of thong slippers thrown at him. He dropped them instantly and reluctantly put them on over his argyle socks.

 

“ _What. The. Hell. Was. That_?” Granger bit out in between bouts of heavy breathing, having regained her vocal chords. “Malfoy!” she screeched at approximately the volume and pitch of a thousand dying thunderbirds.

 

He winced. “Obviously we were just robbed and sent on our way.”

 

Granger seemed to calm down a bit, and she pushed a lock of mussed hair behind her ear. “Is--is that all?”

 

“Is that _all_ ? We don’t have anything now, not even shoes! And your _wand_ , Granger! Now we have nothing!” he groaned and uttered a guttural yell that was absorbed by the sandy landscape.

 

“So, they're not coming back?” Granger mused.

 

“Let's start walking,” he muttered, pressing down on more complaints. This really was the day from hell.

 

“Wait,” Granger said, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Tell me what happened. You talked for so long.”

 

“Nothing happened,” he mumbled. “What happened was that now we're both in the same boat. We should have eaten more food at that cafe.”

 

“What were you talking about? Were you speaking Arabic?”

 

“Greek,” he grumbled. “Look, are we not going to move away from here?”

 

“But our portkey,” she protested.

 

“Forget the portkey!” he ordered.

 

“But I don't think they even knew it was there. They didn't even look in that direction.”

 

“Do you _really_ want to risk going up there again? Just so you know, you're going to have to make two trips, because I'm not making that hike on an empty stomach and using these sodding slippers.”

 

She glanced down at his feet. “That was weird. Why'd they take your shoes and your belt?”

 

“They. Robbed. Us. Did you notice that part, Granger? Or do I have to translate that as well?”

 

“But…” She took a breath and her eyes flicked about, clearly thinking of things to ask. “Look, let's just sit down here for a second, okay? I need to understand what just happened. That way, we can decide what to do next. They clearly aren't a huge threat. They incapacitated us only to take away our things? They didn't try any unforgivables or anything.”

 

He calmed down a bit. “Yeah,” he said. After all, there had been a time when unforgivables flew about his head hourly.

 

“They were Sons of Horus?”

 

He hesitated. “I thought so, but some things he was saying were kind of strange. For example, at one point he said ‘the Sons of Horus believe women can possess magic, but they really can't,’ or something like that.”

 

“That _is_ strange,” she said, frowning. “Given that it was a whole group of women in Luxor performing the rite of Horus's conception.”

 

“And he said things like, ‘the Sons of Horus are oppressors of the innocent,’ always referring to themselves in the third person. But, of course, I haven't used Greek in a really long time, so I'm probably out of practice conjugating.”

 

“Oh.” She fell silent and then gave a short laugh. “When you-when you turned around and apologized to me, I thought for sure you were turning me over to them.”

 

He grunted, too tired to even be angry at her for her assumptions.

 

“I thought you said to just give in to them.”

 

“I said, just give _it_ to them.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“But thanks for the show of faith, Granger,” he said, mouth twisting to one side. “Glad to know you still think of me as a complete and utter twat.”

 

She sucked in the side of her lips awkwardly. “Thanks for pushing me behind you.”

 

He waved her comment away. “If we get robbed again, I'll hurl you at the robbers, believe me.”

 

“I don't think we'll get robbed again,” she said.

 

“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “No kidding. It's time for _us_ to rob someone.”

 

“I'm really sorry, Malfoy,” she said.

 

“Seriously, Granger, aren't you the big, bad war hero? What happened to you back there? You completely froze.”

 

They sat on a rock as the last of the sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon.

 

“Now what?” he asked. “Luxor was bollocks. This whole portkey business was a sodding failure. I'm still stuck here and now I'm out my favorite pair of shoes.”

 

“Malfoy,” she said, and she waited until he looked at her.

 

“I can't believe I'm going to say this,” she said, “but we are officially stranded. We are massively, _massively_ bollocksed, to use your words. We now officially are completely stranded in Egypt. I think it's time that you called your house elf. As wrong as that would be, to use an enslaved creature to help get us out of a quandary. Ironic, but, well...”

 

“No,” he said emphatically.

 

“Malfoy,” she said. “ _Draco_. I don't know how I can get you out of here.”

 

“Granger, surprisingly, I'm not your responsibility,” he said. “You can go if you want, but I didn’t come out here, trying for independence, only to go crawling back to my parents the second things get rough.” That hadn't been what he had planned to say, but after she made her suggestion, he realized that doing what she suggested would burn more than roughing it some more.

 

Seriously, what else could happen to him? He had already been robbed twice. He was dirty and wandless and stranded. Things couldn't get any worse if he were dead. He started to chuckle a bit. He rubbed his chin, which was more stubbly and itchy than it had ever been in his entire life. He should have asked Granger for a shave before things went tits-up. He laughed some more.

 

“Things are not just a little rough,” she was saying. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, without identification or wands.”

 

“Then, the only thing that’s changed is that you’re in the same exact situation that I am. I’ve been like that since we bumped into each other.”

 

“You’re serious then.”

 

“Dead serious. I've never been more serious in my life. I made a stand, and I’m going to see this thing through to the end.”

 

She heaved a sigh. “Hell of a time for you to take a stand on anything, Malfoy, but all right.”

 

“All right?”

 

“Far be it from me to prevent anyone from independence from their parents. Is it a Pureblood thing, do you think?”

 

“What is?”

 

“The whole living at home and letting your mom take care of you thing.”

 

If she were kindling, she would have burst into flames from his glare. “It _is_ rather expected of us, yes.”

 

“It's just you and Ron and...I don't know, Neville, I guess. The whole lot of you Purebloods are very...er, sheltered.”

 

“Stop right there, Granger,” he warned her. “I may not have shoes or a wand or, frankly, a fuck to give, but if you know what's good for you, you should shut up right now.”

 

She heaved a sigh. “All right, I’m sorry. You're doing the right thing. You're standing up for something you believe in. I should be supporting this.”

 

“You really should. This whole reckless and impetuous business is right in line with the Gryffindor house motto: how to kill yourself without trying.”

 

“I'm not going to respond to that,” she said magnanimously, “given that you've clearly had a trying few days and have just lost your favorite pair of shoes. However, might I suggest we start walking back to civilization, or at least the monastery. Maybe we can bum a ride back to town. I need to think of what we can do.”

 

“Good luck with that,” he replied sourly.  

  


They practiced their wandless spells along the way.

 

“This damned backwards country,” he muttered at some point. “There’s a reason they're not in the Magical Cooperation Treaty. I've never heard of a magical capital so in shambles.”

 

“Oh, really? You didn't notice the Ministry after the war, then? Or Diagon Alley.”

 

“And Gringotts. All your doing, too, I might add.”

 

“Yes, that's something called _war_. It tends to ruin cosmetic appearances.”

 

“Yeah, in more ways than one. Say, Granger, you read a ton. Ever read anything regarding removing magical dark marks?”

 

“You want me to remove your dark mark without a wand when we couldn't even transfigure that rock into a chair? You _do_ have a lot of faith in me, don't you?”

 

He scowled at her. “It's only a question.”

 

“Have you tried rejuvenating potion?”

 

“Yes. And now the skin around the dark mark is soft as a baby's bottom. The ink seemed to get fresher as well.”

 

She made a face before it cleared and she looked interested. “That's interesting. Because your skin and the mark have different origins and ages, and both--”

 

“Yeah, it's bloody fascinating. Can we concentrate here?”

 

“How about cleaning spells?”

 

He stared at her as though she were crazy. “ _Cleaning_ spells? Merlin, it's not a bloody stain, it's _dark_ magic.”

 

“Oh, sorry, Malfoy, I'm so sorry I haven't been reading books on dark magic.”

 

“You should be sorry,” he muttered.

 

“What's that?”

 

“Nothing!” he growled.

 

“Malfoy, it's nothing to be ashamed of if you no longer stand by their beliefs,” she said.

 

“What?” he said in disbelief. “The mark of the Dark Lord is nothing to be ashamed if I don't follow his beliefs anymore? Have you lost it? That doesn't even make any sense! It would _only_ not be something to be ashamed of if I still followed their beliefs!”

 

“I didn't mean it like that. I mean it's like a mark of your past, so to speak. We all make mistakes. It's a mark of war.”

 

“We don't all have sodding marks crazy people left on us.”

 

“Oh, really.”

 

“Yes, really.”

 

“What do you call this, then?” she demanded, pulling up her sleeve.

 

He almost choked when he saw the carved out word on her arm. “Oh, ergh…that's horrifying, Granger.”

 

He had almost forgotten she had that, since he had just about blocked out the memory of what happened in that room. And mostly even when it was happening, he had been putting himself in a self-imposed Time-Out, facing the striped wallpaper so that he could pretend they were re-enacting a play behind him. It had almost worked too, especially with him humming to himself.

 

“Pray go on about how we don't all have crazy people marks on our arms.”

 

“Couldn't you get that removed? I mean, it wasn't used as a conduit or anything.”

 

“It's dark magic though, so the scar won't ever heal.”

 

There was a moment of silence. “I’m sorry, Granger.” A pause. “She was crazy. Especially towards the end.”

 

“I'm aware,” she replied dryly. “Really, I count myself lucky that she didn’t do it anywhere important.”

 

He considered that. “That’s true, I guess. You really are a bloody ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

 

“Sometimes when we were on the run, that was all we had. Pure optimistic hope in the face of nothing else. Not even food.”

 

“Maybe you should have worked on your accio and multiplication charms,” he said unsympathetically. “That's usually what I do when I'm hungry.”

 

“Well, luckily for us, we'll soon have the opportunity to test out your wandless food summoning spell,” she said sourly.

 

He lifted a brow. “Chipper Granger getting all huffy, is she? A little miffed when she hasn't had her supper?”

 

“Let's just catalogue our wandless repertoire. You: multiplication and summoning spells which I'll have to see in action to believe it, and your incredibly useful underwater breathing charm, which should come in handy in the desert. Me: let's see, I can do _alohamora,_ some levitation, a few jinxes.”

 

“How about _confundus_?” he asked. “As that sounds possibly the most relevant in getting what we want out of unsuspecting victims.”

 

“This sounds horrible and all completely illegal,” she sighed. “I don't know how I got myself into this mess.”

 

“You ask yourself this now? After getting in trouble alongside Potter for the better part of seven years?”

 

“That's a fair point,” she admitted. “Oh, look, we're at the visitors’ entrance. I've just realized what we can do.” Before he could utter a word or even lift a hand to stop her, she had marched off ahead.

 

Draco found himself thinking, for the second time that day, that perhaps Sainted Potter hadn't meant to do all those impetuous things, but was instead spurred by this completely crazy witch. She was the complete antithesis of every other witch he had ever known. Blood status, obviously, being a given. But the witches he had known were tactical experts in the art of manipulation, able to blink out tears at the drop off a hat. Using their feminine form to perfection to gain the upper hand.

 

Granger was no slouch in the looks department, but her method of getting her way was to run completely roughshod over any of his objections, no social niceties or feminine wiles doled out. As for showing off her goodies, he still wanted to laugh every time the thought of her in her “rashguard” popped into his brain.

 

Still, that was something, wasn't it? He couldn't remember the last time he felt like laughing. Life had felt like a complete downer for going on a decade. And spending time with Granger was, when he wasn’t being completely infuriated by her, a laugh a minute.

 

Except, of course, when he went totally berserk on the mountain and started rambling about things that he had no business saying to anyone, much less Harry Potter's best friend.

 

Something in the atmosphere on the mountain had taken him back to memories of the past, something he did so well to bury in his subconscious.

 

Sixth year. His helplessness. His terror at the sudden mad fury and spittle foaming from the woman he used to hug as a child. How, for her first years in Azkaban, she had seemed normal, if just less happy. His fear and reluctance to go to the gaol to see her, even though he had adored her as a child, feelings that matured into guilt. His numbness and inability to move when she had broken out and the Dark Lord returned and showed up in his house with her, far from being the glorious wizard his father had claimed and closer to resembling something out of a nightmare. His desire to close his eyes and imagine himself far from it all. The sound of the giant snake Nagini slithering throughout the corridors at all hours. The sound of Greyback’s panting and growling when one least expected it. Of dreading those interminable Death Eater meetings that the Dark Lord called together in order to showcase his mad power. The burn of his Mark whenever _he_ wanted him, and being afraid to even _think_ any traitorous thoughts in the event _he_ could read his mind over distance.

 

And then, a hand reached across the distance to separate the mist of memory, and he looked up to see Hermione Granger gazing at him with something he never thought he’d see in her eyes. He had seen a variety of things from her over the years--smugness, hatred, irritation, anger, and disdain--always the disdain. But never the warmness she showed him then.

 

Even worse, she had to be the bigger person and not dwell on his confession or scoff or make a big deal of of it.

 

She hadn't looked at him with eyes of pity, but they were large and brown with the sympathy that acknowledged all the deaths they had mourned, even his, on the wrong side of the war. And as he gazed back at her, there was something strange bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

 

And then when she smiled at him, it was a wry and lopsided smile that encompassed years and a gulf of distance that suddenly shrank to the arm's length between them.

 

He hadn't realized until that moment how much he had needed that recognition of his moral struggles and internal conflict. How he had tried, in his own limited way, to do what was right, even if it amounted to nothing in the grand scheme of things. But that was Hermione Granger for you. Top of the class down to the last. Always able to read between the lines. Always with her correct answers and endless morality. Except, and probably not for the first time, he acknowledged that neither were bad things.

 

Forgiveness and absolution, two concepts he would have thought were impossible to apply to the two of them, seemed to shimmer in the air atop the mountain earlier. Draco was surprised how good they felt.

 

As the sun sank beneath the horizon, suddenly, Ras Safsafa had seemed like a completely different place--some place substantially brighter and slightly wonderful.

 

That was Hermione Granger for you--always doing things to him and affecting him in ways that were utterly unforgivable.

 

Draco almost stumbled when he realized the thought floating through his brain: _He liked her_.

 

He honest-to-goodness really liked her. Not just attraction or any of that bollocks because she was the only witch available for miles and he was low on sleep. But he really enjoyed being with her. Conversation with her flowed in a way he couldn’t remember it going with any female of his acquaintance, and maybe that was more interesting than it was sad, as he had previously thought.

 

That thought sobered him up in a hurry. Was he crazy? This was Hermione Granger. Merlin, he could count the number of times she had made him want to scream, and not in a good way. He had found her _completely annoying_ in school, always, _always_ in his way.

 

But, obviously, that was then. This was now. They were completely different people from their schooldays counterpart. Without the barriers of house rivalry or blood-related issues or annoying friends, there was something between them that flowed. Effortlessly. Smoothly.

 

And of course he couldn't deny there was some strange chemistry that had always drawn him to her in the past, that made him go out of his way to get her attention in some immature, idiotic way, then as now. He had always had an eye for the best and the brightest. If he were honest with himself, the most attractive trait he found in a witch was how intelligent she was and how fast she could repartee with him. Someone who saw through his shite and could manoeuvre his lightning quick changes of emotions.

 

There wasn’t anyone who fit that description any closer than Hermione Granger.

 

_Merlin's balls on a stick._

 

But no, that was indeed just talking crazy.

 

And obviously, bringing her home would be completely over the top. What would his parents even say? His father would shit fireballs. There was no one his father detested more than Harry Potter for besting him, but Hermione Granger came in at a close second. No, Dumbledore was also up there as well. Draco gave up enumerating his father's enemies--there were just too many to count.

 

He wasn’t--was he really considering her in that light? It was one thing to be an enlightened wizard in these postwar times and claim--out loud--that blood didn’t matter. It was another to _actually_ indulge in such nonsense. Of course blood didn’t matter--at work or at school. But what about in relationships? In his own partner? In the mother of his children?

 

Draco thought that perhaps he had gone around the bend--it was one thing to not believe in the superiority of one blood over another, but it was another to consider your lifelong enemy as your potential partner, liking or not.

 

But when he looked at Granger, he didn’t see someone who used to annoy the crap out of him and who would never fit in at Malfoy Manor, blood status or not. All he saw was her, brilliant, irresistible Granger, with a mouth begging to be kissed.

 

Yeah, Draco thought, eyeing the slight swing of her bum as she marched straight through the door of the visitors’ centre without a hesitation in her step. He thought that maybe he could probably stand to rile her up every single day of his life.

 

Except, he realized with a sinking heart, that she didn't feel the same way. Not from her reaction back there.

 

He couldn't exactly blame her, could he? He was the poster boy for regrets and bad decisions. And after this, he'd have scant opportunity to see her socially.

 

And he thought with some resignation that seemed about right as far as his life was concerned.

 


	11. Chapter 11

At the entrance, Hermione realized she was alone and turned to look for Malfoy, who was trudging up after her, walking as though his feet were tied down with cement blocks and not wearing flip flops as they actually were.

 

He looked so far removed from the boy she had once known that she couldn't help a little snicker. Not only had he lost his precious shoes and belt, his shirt—woven from the oh-so-valuable seven-tailed fox—was dirty and unkempt, since her dirt-repelling charm had long since worn off. If he had sported a tie at some point in time, and now Hermione could honestly say she had never seen him without a tie of some kind, it was long gone. His socks were still whole and clearly, like all of his clothing, as expensive as everything else he sported, but now they were liberally doused with sand. Not to mention, he was wearing flip flops, which he had difficulty wearing initially, as he had never worn its ilk before. 

 

He sported a three day beard, by her calculations, and she had to say that it was the best look Draco Malfoy had ever had going for him. His hair was dingy with sand and grease and was standing up where he had been pulling at it, and it was probably a look that makeup artists tried for hours to achieve for a beach shoot.

 

He still had (what Priya considered unnatural—and she was right) that porcelain doll-like complexion, but he looked distinctly less girlish now, all rumpled and scruffy. In fact, Hermione now considered that he had a collection of strangely dominant traits that should have been recessive. That, combined with some weird behavior, could really set off certain alarm bells. For example, white-blond hair combined with those eerie translucent eyes set under dark brows and framed by curly lashes. Such contrasting traits were things that, before Hermione had resolutely turned her mind away from the vainglorious things of this world, she had prayed to have. 

 

The only thing he had in common with that schoolboy she once knew was his expression. He looked grumpy and there was a deep frown line between his brows. The difference was that over the course of their misbegotten adventures, she had come to know him a little better. That made a world of difference in her view of him. Instead of being wary of any vitriol he was about to spout, she asked with the same concern she would show for any of her friends: “You alright there?”

 

“Peachy,” he replied sarcastically, darting a look at her from under his white-blond fringe and dark brows.

 

“I’m going to get you out of here and back home, Malfoy,” she said and was embarrassed when it came out sounding like a vow.

 

Far from looking relieved at her avowed help, a flash of irritation crossed his face. “Again,” he drawled with every bit of that upper class superciliousness she thought they had done away with, “I’m not your responsibility. I’m not  _ Weasley _ ,” he said at almost a growl. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

 

“I’m not,” she said with some surprise at his sudden harsh tone of voice. Luckily, she had plenty of experience when it came to dealing with boys and their confusing mood shifts. Everyone made fun of girls and their hormones, but why did nobody call boys out on their similarly rapid emotional upheavals? “I’m just trying to help!”

 

He didn’t speak immediately, but when he did, he seemed a little less angry. He still didn’t look at her though. “What’s your plan now?”

 

“We need a ride back into town. The best way to do it is to call the local police. We’ll say that we were robbed.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “The Muggles? We’re getting Muggles involved in this?”

 

“Have you a better idea, then?” she demanded, hand on her hip.

 

“Nope, fresh out,” he said. “Have at it, then.”

 

It did not take long.

 

“This is a very bad business,” the man behind the counter said to them, shaking his head after she had explained their predicament, accompanied by many gestures towards Malfoy’s disheveled appearance. The man had poured them two steaming hot cups of fragrant and very sweet Egyptian tea “on the house” as well as called the policemen for them.

 

“So,” the man said, turning back to them. “The police station is down the road that way, around three or four kilometres away. You can walk, or you can wait. Some of our guides go back home and will drive there. I ask, they will be happy to take you, _leysa_ _filoos._ ” With an expressive gesture of his hand, he translated, “Free of charge. We hope you do not take against our country because of this.”

 

“No, that's—that's great. Thank you so much,” Hermione said, with a small shiver. She glanced at Malfoy, whose brow was still drawn down over his eyes.

 

“Cold?” the man said, chuckling a little. He was already prepared for the desert nighttime and dressed in a parka. He nodded at a stack of folded blankets on a bench by the door. “You can use that until one of the tour groups comes back.”

 

After thanking the man again, Hermione herded Malfoy to one of the tables by the door. She unfolded the top blanket, which was of a heavy, coarse weave that smelled musky but not unbearable. “Argh, I'm going back to get Harry and we're coming here to track down my bag,” she muttered to herself and settled in one of the chairs. 

 

After a grunt, Malfoy settled into the chair next to her.

 

“You alright there, Malfoy? Drink some of this tea. It'll warm you up a little.”

 

“I'm not afraid of the cold,” he retorted. “Just…how long is this going to take?”

 

“He said the tour guide generally brings them down after sunset, and then another group will be here shortly before sunrise.” She eyed him skeptically. “Unless you fancy hoofing it to town? It's only a few kilometres.”

 

“No, forget it,” he said, leaning his head back on the back of the chair and closing his eyes. “I meant, how long do you reckon it'll take for us to return to England? If we were to Muggle it.”

 

“Muggle it?” she repeated. “Like, backpacking? Walking the entire time and hitching lifts?”

 

“None of that made any sense to me,” he said, opening one eye. “Including the walking the entire time part. But yes, I suppose that's what I mean.”

 

She laughed and pretended to give it some thought. “Well, if we were crazy enough to do that, it would take us the better part of the year, probably. We have no money at all, and now you don't have any shoes.” Only a second after she said that did she realize that she was treating them as a collective.

 

He lifted one foot and tilted his head to examine it and the dusty hem of his once pristine slacks. “So, what's this plan of yours? Aside from freezing your arse off over there.”

 

“You see?” Hermione felt justified in pointing out. “If I had my rashguard under this—” she gestured at her shorts and shirt— “I wouldn't be so cold.”

 

He opened both eyes and smirked at her. “Actually, Granger, I do have another wandless trick. Come here.”

 

“No,” she said immediately. “This blanket is doing the trick.”

 

“No, really. I've got a mean warming spell, but you need to come closer.”

 

She eyed him and then scooted her chair across the concrete floors towards him. 

 

“Palms towards me,” he said, and she complied, rolling her eyes a little. 

 

The moment her palms touched his, a rush of heat traveled through his hands through hers and her entire body. “Wicked,” she said, eyes meeting his.

 

He smirked a little as their palms remained connected for a moment. Their eyes clashed again and Hermione found that she was holding her breath. Was he—he was actually prolonging touching her, she realized. He wasn't screaming that she was defiling his pureblood hands. It felt like the most intimate thing in the world, to stare someone in the eyes while your palms touched, wrists to fingertips.

 

And he really had the prettiest eyes she had ever seen, long and surrounded by dark lashes. She wished…

 

Hermione found herself leaning in when she snapped back to herself.

 

No, this was craziness. Malfoy was dating someone else. He was clearly delusional after what was now his second night without sleep—and possibly more than that. She would be taking advantage of him in a moment of weakness, surrounded as he was by Muggles and filth—literally, as he was much dirtier than she was.

 

To top it off, had she actually been wondering what it'd be like to kiss him? She had really lost it. 

 

She snatched her hands away and buried them in the folds of the blanket. “Thanks. That was quite a good charm.”

 

He nodded curtly, looking away.

 

“Anyway,” she said into the moment of awkwardness. “Don't you want to get back to Cathy? Does she have a number? Do you know it?”

 

“I don't.”

 

“Well, Harry checks his messages at least once a week. I had Dean's too, but not memorized.” She sighed. “Anyway. We'll get out of here soon.”

 

“Who was the last person you snogged?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue.

 

Hermione gaped at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out. It took her a moment to remind herself that he hadn’t been using legilimency on her, not without a wand. It would just be humiliating if he knew how lascivious her thoughts had turned regarding him.

 

“That long ago?” he smirked. 

 

“I'm not the kind of girl who needs a man to survive,” she retorted, using all her mental abilities to think about anything else but him. Her face was threatening to burn up.

 

“Who was it?”

 

“It's really not any of your business—”

 

“Was it Weasley—ah, you twitched. It  _ was _ him. I did think you two were acting quite the lovebirds after the Hogwarts battle, but it didn't make sense to me. Granger, wasn't that seven years ago?”

 

“It wasn't Ron, actually,” she cut him off. “That was, as you said, seven years ago. It wasn't anyone you know. Someone from MACUSA who came over for training.”

 

He blinked. “Oh.”

 

“And before that, I went out a few times Harold Bobbit, who was one year below us in school. And then it was Patrick Mulligan, one of Ginny's Quidditch friends—”

 

“I know Patrick Mulligan,” Malfoy interrupted. “Plays for Kenmare.”

 

“You got it. The point is, Malfoy, is that I've dated plenty of wizards. Just because you would never touch a Muggleborn…despite your current relationship with an actual Muggle, doesn't mean I'm bubotuber pus to everyone else.”

 

“I never said—”

 

“Why, because only the person you jeered at for years and years could possibly want me?”

 

“I don't mean anything like that, Granger,” he said. He looked angry. 

 

“You insinuated it.”

 

“I  _ didn't _ . You don't know anything about what I'm thinking about,” he said. “You're going on assumptions from  _ seven years ago _ .”

 

They had both risen to their feet and were staring straight at each other.

 

“Don't presume you know anything about what I want,” he said shortly. 

 

After a few seconds, she nodded. “Fine. I  _ don't _ know anything about what you want. Let's just drop it.”

 

For some reason, he looked even more displeased.

 

In the next moment, the owner of the small gift shop and cafe was calling them. A young man stood at the counter, eyebrows raised questioningly at them.

 

“Robbed on top of Mount Sinai?” the young man said doubtfully. “That I have never heard of. On the hiking trails, yes, but on the mountain itself?”

 

“That's what happened,” Malfoy said. “Or else I'd still have my shoes and my belt.”

 

“And wallet?” the man prompted.

 

Malfoy lifted a shoulder as if to say, “Of course.”

 

“I have a group that I must pick up in a few hours,” the young man said. “But you are welcome to ride with me back to the city.”

 

The young man, Josef, with the J pronounced as a Y, led them to a deserted car park. The earlier visitors to the monastery had dispersed with the sun. Josef made small talk as he drove off the dirt path and onto the paved roads to town.

 

As the store owner promised, it was but a few minutes before they had crested a small hill and saw the shining lights of a small town. Josef stopped next to a small one-storey building that he told them was the police station. They got out of the car and thanked him before walking the few steps up to the dimly lit police station.

 

The only person available was a young man named Ahmed at the front desk, wearing what Hermione thought was an overload on weaponry. He seemed young and unsure of what they should do. He had them fill out some paperwork and told them that his supervising officer would be along in the morning to see to them.

 

After a few minutes of chitchat, Ahmed took pity on them and offered them some of the flatbread that was so common in Egypt and  _ dukka _ as garnish. Hermione didn't know about Malfoy, but it tasted divine after her day. He also let them use a room in the back with a small couch that was as flat as a bed and a table with two chairs. The room clearly doubled as conference room, interview room, and holding room as the need arose.

 

Hermione sank immediately on the low couch. “What a day,” she said.

 

“It's not over yet,” Malfoy said grimly, looking down at the flatbread he was holding with distaste. “I didn't even  _ scourgify _ my hands.”

 

“I don't think that matters anymore. I saw him pick that up with his bare hands off the chair next to him,” she said. Malfoy looked doubtfully down at the flatbread before heaving a sigh and tearing it with his teeth.

 

Hermione lay down and stretched down on the couch, unmindful of how many unwashed bodies had been before her. The room was faintly foggy with the remnants from an earlier smokey inhabitant. She found she was too tired to care much, although she muttered a small wandless charm to disperse the smoke, groaning in frustration when nothing happened.

 

“It's  _ tergis vaporo sine legnum _ ,” Malfoy corrected. “This one requires the wandless variation.”

 

“I knew that,” Hermione told him with a glare. “This is just...not how I envisaged my day ending.” She sighed.

 

He gave a short, humorless laugh before crossing his legs at the ankles atop the table. “What, you didn't picture your trip to Egypt ending in a fertility ritual and robbed by local wizards?”

 

Put like that, Hermione couldn't help but smirk. “Yes, that wasn't in the travel brochures.”

 

The tension from earlier was finally broken, and Hermione was glad of it. Glad of the easy camaraderie that had developed between them. 

 

They chewed on their flatbread in silence.

 

“How often do you think they do the fertility ritual?” he finally asked.

 

“Ugh. A better question is, how long does it take for the... appendage to heal after being chopped off?”

 

He winced. “Bad imagery, Granger. Bad imagery.”

 

“Sorry,” she said sympathetically. “And do you think all the men get their… things chopped off, or just that lucky Osiris stand-in?”

 

“At a guess, I'd have to go with just the stand-in,” he said. “I think fewer wizards would be recruited if they knew their bits would be removed at every ritual. But the free sex? That might be inducement, as long as they didn't have to sacrifice their own organs.”

 

“Did... Voldemort have anything of the kind?” Hermione asked, a little tentatively, somewhat amazed at her own temerity. Never in her previous life would she have imagined talking to Draco Malfoy about Death Eater revels, as though Voldemort were someone to make fun of, and Malfoy one of her friends. It was a strange phenomenon all around, except she had never imagined that she and Malfoy would be stuck in an out of the way police station on the Sinai peninsula, sharing flatbread that someone handed them with hands that just touched any array of things that didn't include soap and water.

 

Malfoy was quiet for so long that she didn't think he would answer. When he did, he addressed the ceiling instead of her. “I sometimes wondered what my father saw in the Dark Lord to inspire such loyalty. He was powerful, yes, incredibly, terrifyingly so. But utterly without compassion or sympathy. At one time, I thought such traits admirable. He had…no weaknesses to make him vulnerable to his enemies. But it was no way to run a regime. There was no discussion of any kind. It was always his way or  _ avada kedavra _ . It wasn't any sort of utopia, not the kind everyone talked about.”

 

Hermione remained quiet and listened to him reminisce. 

 

“The only time I saw him discomfited, other than his absolute obsession with Potter, was when Aunt Bella touched him. I think she quite fancied him, you know, even with that face he had. I'm told he used to be quite the charmer, but naturally, by the time I met him, he looked an absolute horror. Anyway, Aunt Bella would grovel to him in the most sickening manner, and she _ stroked _ his arm once. He leaped into the air,” Malfoy said, chuckling at the memory. “Utterly terrifying at the time, because no one knew when he would start randomly  _ crucio’ _ ing people, but in retrospect, it was rather amusing.”

 

“You must have been terrified, taking your father's spot,” Hermione said.

 

Malfoy didn't speak, merely blinked up at the ceiling and the fluorescent light that made a slight humming sound. “How many times have you been  _ crucio'd _ , do you reckon?”

 

“Once,” Hermione replied quietly. “Just that time.”

 

“My father did it on me shortly after the Dark Lord returned,” Malfoy said. “He said that there were little tricks one could utilize to withstand the pain. But it was still excruciating. And my father, for all his faults, couldn't do it as much as he wished for my... _ training _ . So Aunt Bella took over.” Malfoy turned his head to lock eyes with her. There was regret simmering in his gaze. “I reckon she was one of the best at that, having been trained by him herself.”

 

Hermione swallowed as she recalled the events of that night. It was different recalling it with Malfoy than with her friends. To this day, neither Harry nor Ron could stand to hear her talk about it—they were too crippled by their own sense of helplessness and guilt at the time it happened. Talking about it, though, helped. The only person who had undergone one of Bellatrix’s  _ crucios  _ around her was Harry, and she wished she could have discussed it with him, who still changed the subject whenever it came up. He had gone through so much pain and hexes, but he was still too caught up in the emotions of the past and preferred to sweep it all under the rug. She understood, in a way. Talking about Bellatrix reminded Harry of Sirius.

 

“Early days yet,” Ginny had said when Hermione broached the subject with her. “He'll talk about it eventually, maybe in a few years. He's already a lot less angry than he used to be, remember that?”

 

She did. 

 

She remembered a Harry pulsing with so many emotions that he lashed at everyone around him. She remembered a time when she and Ron feared that his private sessions with Dumbledore were ripping him apart. It hurt that he was gradually opening up about it with Ginny, but not her, even though she had been there for all of it.

 

But maybe that was why.

 

Malfoy wasn't a close friend at all. His eyes didn't glaze over with hurt and guilt when they talked about the past. 

 

Maybe that was what worked—talking about it with someone who hadn't been there at the time, not in the same position as you, but who knew what it was like to be torn apart by war.

 

“Hey, this is no time to get maudlin, Granger,” Malfoy suddenly cut into her thoughts. “Maybe when we get back, we can get absolutely sloshed at the Leaky, but don't go to pieces on me now.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “What, are we _ friends _ now?”

 

He smirked at her. “You transfigured my smalls for me, what do you think?”

 

“I suppose there are stranger things in the world,” she admitted. “Do you hear that?”

 

He cocked his head to the side. “Sounds like more people are dropping in.”

 

“I need to use the loo,” she admitted. “While I'm at it, I'm going to see if any of the other rooms have a couch as well. We should try to get some sleep if we're able to.”

 

He frowned. “I don't think we should split up.”

 

“Aw, are you going to miss me?” she said mockingly.

 

He rolled his eyes. “I just don't think it's a good idea to do that...amongst Muggles. Look what we've run into so far. It seems that the longer we spend time in this country, the worse off we are.”

 

“Alright,” she agreed with a nod. “When I come back, we'll come up with a plan, an actual plan this time, and not playing it by ear as we have been. That's been disastrous so far.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

* * *

  
  


When she left, Draco rubbed both hands over his face. What the bloody hell was he thinking, chatting with Hermione Granger about the Dark Lord. Those were some of the darkest days in his life, and he still hadn't started facing up to his memories. Nor did he especially expect or want to. The past could firmly stay in the past where it belonged.

 

Yet somehow talking about it with—blithering bollocks on a stick—Granger, of all people, didn't make him want to hurl out his innards. What a strange notion, considering the roles they played in the war.

 

The last time the subject of the war had come up amongst his friends, Pansy had made a timid throwaway inquiry about whether any of them had anything to regret about their actions in the war. Draco almost bit her head off for that. 

 

He had been there when she made her excellent suggestion to hand Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord, given what she knew of the situation, which wasn't a lot. After all, all most people knew was that Potter was the supposed “chosen one.” Didn't it make sense that the only person to have survived the  _ Avada _ curse would be the one to kill He-Who-Couldn't-Be-Killed?

 

Supposedly, she suffered what she called “social suicide” because of her suggestion. Anyway, Draco thought that locking all the Slytherins in the dungeon that day pretty much saved all of them, so he told her that “social suicide” was infinitely better than  _ actual death _ , which was what had happened to Crabbe, remember that?

 

Draco also thought her suggestion had made a sick sort of sense. Why should everyone else be tortured and killed anymore while Potter hid out in the countryside somewhere for most of the year? 

 

Of course, later, it turned out that Potter's weird survivability came from a mixture of his mother's love for him and the Dark Lord's own dark magic and that he hadn’t, in fact, turned coward, but was actively searching out a way to demolish the Dark Lord without using an  _ avada _ . And, Potter  _ did  _ end up confronting the Dark Lord by himself and winning, so Pansy could damn well comfort herself with the knowledge that she was right all along.

 

So he definitely didn't understand her gripe with her social standing, especially since she was doing just fine for herself, as some sort of columnist of some kind. And so he had told her, admittedly in strident tones. But seriously, though, if anyone wanted to compare social status and bemoan their fates, it should be  _ him  _ and no one else, so for the love of Merlin, shut  _ up _ .

 

The point was, Pansy didn't get a Dark Mark on her arm. Pansy didn't let a whole slew of Death-Eaters into a school full of underage wizards and witches. Pansy didn't get her whole list of misdeeds annotated in the  _ Prophet _ just before his sham of a trial; misdeeds that included the attempted murder of two Gryffindors, an Unforgivable cast for an entire year on a witch, violating school code and conspiracy to commit school-wide terrorism, and being complicit in the disarming and assassination of one Albus Dumbledore. 

 

Certainly, these deeds were pardoned after an exceedingly long trial in which almost everyone he had ever known was called forth to testify either for or against him, the few exceptions being those who were dead. Still, seeing the complaint filed against him and then having it reprinted in the  _ Prophet _ , despite the fact the records were supposed to be sealed due to his age at the time, had given him heart palpitations.

 

Hermione Granger had not been at his trial. 

 

Draco had let out a huge breath of relief at the time. Potter testified for him, but everyone knew that he had a hero complex and now was focusing on him as the next person to save. Draco was sure that if Granger had been on the prosecuting side for his trial, he would have been locked in Azkaban before the Wizengamot had even taken a vote. His actions against Potter could have been laughed off as boyish rivalry, but his hounding of a Muggleborn witch through most of their formative years was pretty much unforgivable. He was well aware of that. 

 

Even though his mother had told him at a young age to treat witches well, the only witch he ever came into contact with was Pansy, and she could be so irritating. Honestly, he didn't treat Granger any differently, aside from a little more venom in his name-calling. But that was only because Pansy could tell on him to her mother, and then Draco would have been in for it.

 

Not so with Granger, obviously, and he made the most out of one of his former hobbies—Gryffindor-taunting with a side of Muggleborn-baiting, although it had always been evident to him that Granger was a cut above her peers.

 

He always noticed her back in school—not that he ever fancied her or anything like that, despite what Blaise used to say, but just because she was so  _ strange— _ and it wasn't as though she were impressed with any of the things he ever talked about. Like how he knew the Minister and could sit in the Minister's box for the World Cup. Or stuff with regards to his father and how important he was. Or how expensive his things were. Or how big his Gringotts vault was.

 

Seriously, those were things that impressed a great number of witches. Blaise’s stepsisters, for example—and he had dated a few of them—were always hanging on to his words when he talked about his family's castle in Switzerland. They were really easy-to-understand witches, and he had always dated those. Of course, they had bored him silly after a while, since a lot of them would ask him to tell her how many homes his family owned, and for the love of magic, he had already told them that. It wasn't like it was in the triple digits. Seriously, keep up.

 

Hermione Granger was kind of a rarity set amidst all that.

 

He wasn't quite sure if it had to do with her background—surely even Muggles, despite the unfortunate circumstances of their environment, understood wealth in terms of possessions. He had a strange feeling that it might simply be  _ her _ , with her maddening ways, her hideous hair, and her infuriating mouth. 

 

Draco groaned at the ceiling as he lost track of the crack he had been following with his eyes. 

 

It was implausible, this strange draw he felt towards her. There was no reason for it, except unless he had always been a secret rebel at heart.

 

That would make sense, actually, since the longer he had been away from his father, the more he started to diverge from his teachings. For example, his father had been rather extreme until his stay in Azkaban changed his mind completely. (Now, his father suddenly found that he  _ could _ coexist peacefully with Muggles and blood traitors without hexing them.) But Draco had apparently been born in a more progressive era and found his views starting to waver drastically after the death of his classmate, Cedric Diggory. Suddenly, killing people didn't seem as glamorous or so moral as his father had made it sound. 

 

But what did it all matter what he thought or how he differed from his father, when the world still considered him a world-class creep?

 

As Draco lay there, thinking about all the things that had brought him to where he was now—specifically the lounge Granger had vacated, because of the concept “finders keepers, losers weepers”—footsteps resounded along the hallway. 

 

Faintly, Draco registered that the footsteps did not belong to Granger, who had a quicker tempo because of her diminutive height. Before he could do anything other than turn his head towards the door, it opened.

 

Things happened in quick succession.

 

“You!” Draco exclaimed, eyes wide with shock as he shot to his feet. 

 

At least, he tried to.

 

He was stopped halfway as he was caught by  _ another  _ petrificus totalus by the  _ same _ tosser as before. 

 

Just before he pitched forward to slam face-down on the floor— _ not the nose, not the nose! _ —the thought crossed his mind that the damned leader of the Mt. Sinai Son of Horus was wearing a uniform.

 

The same exact uniform as the police officer at the front desk.

 


	12. Chapter 12

In the next moment, he heard a sigh from the leader and then, “Hey!” before a very loud clanging sound pulsed through the room. It sounded as though someone had struck a gong with a sofa. Then rapid footsteps.

 

_ This day just keeps getting better and better _ , Draco thought, trying to see out of the corners of his eyes and not dwelling on the state of his nose. Who was it now?

 

His last words were somehow miraculously spoken.

 

He found himself freed by a quick  _ finite _ and looked up to see Granger holding a wand in one hand and standing over him. In her other hand, she held a large, black rectangular tray, like the kind used to hold pastries. The Son of Horus lay crumpled on the floor, clearly having been knocked out by Granger with the pastry sheet before being bound by magic.

 

He stared at the tableau with wide eyes, which he then turned on her. “Did you do that?”

 

She looked at him with even larger eyes. “Yeah. I got his wand.”

 

Draco stared at her for a moment in disbelief and then gave a reluctant chuckle. When she gazed back at him with a slow answering smile, his brain ceased to function properly. His arms reached out without any aforethought and hauled her into his arms. Hands pulled her face in for a full kiss on the mouth.

 

There was no thought into it. 

 

Draco merely was glad to be rescued, as unmanly as that was. He didn't expect her to reciprocate or anything. In fact, he was half expecting a sharp jab in the stomach.

 

But miraculously, after her initial struggle, she pressed herself right up against him and kissed him back.

 

It was, for lack of anything better to say, a damn good kiss.

 

In the back of his mind, he was aware that they should have other priorities. They should make sure the wizard was alone, although from the silence in the station, he felt he had been. They should put several more binding spells on him, although he was sure he could count on Granger to be thorough. They should—

 

Ah, sod it.

 

And he gave himself up to the sheer mindfuckery that was kissing Hermione Granger. He, Draco Malfoy.

 

It was better than it had any right to be. A conversation with Theo and Blaise back in the day flitted through his brain:

 

_ “Draco, come here and listen to this,” Blaire had called to him. He was wearing the sort of suppressed grin he had when he had heard something he didn’t quite believe but was titillated nonetheless. _

 

_ Draco sauntered over where his two classmates were slouched in their armchairs in the common room. From their positions, it appeared as though they knew exactly how coveted their seats were and didn't plan on leaving until their bladders exploded. _

 

_ “Theo is telling me all about his adventures in the Muggle realm,” Blaise said. “He claims that Muggle girls are better than witches.” _

 

_ “What a load of bollocks.” Draco’s reaction was immediate, as was his derisive snort. “Have you gone completely mental?” _

 

_ Theo held up a hand to halt Draco’s furious monologue. “No, no. Better… _ You know.  _ In a specific way. _ ”

 

_ Draco stared at him for a moment while Blaise raised his eyebrows and waited expectantly for the shoe to drop.  _

 

_ “That's bloody disgusting! You mean to tell me, you've been going around shagging Muggles? You might as well be doing it with the gamekeeper's animals!” Draco lowered his voice, looking surreptitiously around the common room to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their scandalous conversation. _

 

_ “Well, I don't always shag.” Theo was unmoved by Draco’s ire, sitting back in the armchair quite at his leisure considering what he had just confessed to. “Sometimes it's just snogging, yeah? Sometimes they, er, do other things. But it's bloody incredible, the things they can do with their tongue.” _

 

_ “What sorts of things are we talking about here?” Blaise rubbed his chin, looking mildly revolted but also intrigued. _

 

_ Theo glanced around the common room and leaned forward to describe some acts that had Draco's eyebrows shooting upwards.  _

 

_ “That shouldn't be anatomically possible!” Draco couldn’t wrap his mind around anything Theo was saying. He knew his housemate had a disturbingly wild imagination, but this was not a jest to be throwing around. “Unless you've a dick like a jellybean, and I, for one, do not.” _

 

_ Theo refused to rise to the bait. “Sod off, Draco. Bloody raved about my size.” _

 

_ Blaise frowned thoughtfully, just as he did in arithmancy when he was trying to solve a problem. “D'you think it has to do with their lack of magic?”  _

 

_ Draco nearly threw up his hands at his housemates. There was a reason he liked Theo and Blaise, and their irreverence for all the virtues of their background was one of them. There was also a reason he preferred the general safety of Crabbe and Goyle. Still. Draco glanced around again before shooing Blaise out of his armchair. Good-natured Blaise summoned an ottoman from across the room before settling down on it.  _

 

_ “Maybe they're built differently,” Draco said in a low voice. As a male, he was reluctantly interested despite himself. Theo had always been the adventurous one of the three of them; Blaise would be too, if he weren't so busy laughing at everyone. Draco's childhood friends, the loyal Crabbe and Goyle, were the rule-abiders, the tradition-upholders. That was why the three of them had always been chummy. He couldn't imagine talking about this with either of them—they, and their parents, dammit, trusted him to keep them out of trouble.  _

 

_ This subject could only be breached with Theo and his infernal risk-taking. Sometimes he had no idea what went on in his friend's head. Did he not think his father would never get wind of his antics? Draco himself couldn't imagine how horrified he'd be if his father found out anything similar. _

 

_ But Theo had a spectacular gift for staying unnoticed. Witness his ability to fly completely over the wards in McGonagall's class. Draco didn't think his friend had ever been called on, and McGonagall called on everyone. _

 

_ Theo leaned back and laced his fingers together behind his head. “Built exactly the same, from what I can tell. The difference is in the skill. I think they also have more books on the subject.” _

 

_ Blaise snickered. “Reckon everyone's favorite Mudblood swot knows anything about this? She always has her nose in a book.  Or three.” _

 

_ Theo looked thoughtful as Draco looked on with a foreboding expression. This conversation was taking a turn for the distinctly unsavory. _

 

_ “I bet she'd be a right slag under the right circumstances,” Theo said. “See, the ones like Pansy are the ones who don't give it up so easily or try at all. She's rich and spoiled and saving it in exchange for some enormous Gringotts vault, yeah? But Granger…she's a Mudblood. They rut in the mud and call it a good time, if you know what I mean.” _

 

_ His two friends exchanged looks and laughed companionably. Draco frowned at the two of them, unwilling to reveal his complete cluelessness as to what they were saying.  _

 

_ “Don't act as if you've never thought about it, Draco,” Blaise said, suppressing a snicker behind his fist. “We've all seen you go after the Mudblood like a niffler after a pot of gold. It's only because you can't, yeah? But you want to.” _

 

_ Unforgivable.  _

 

_ “I don't,” Draco all but snarled. “Bloody disgusting filth, with her stupid hair and endless questions.” _

 

_ Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Theo roll his eyes. “Protest a bit much there?” _

 

_ “Shut up, Theo.” _

 

_ “Draco, you know if you spent less time staring at her in class, you'd actually know where we are in the book when Professor Babbling calls on you.” Blaise shook his head slightly before turning to Theo. “Never mind him, he's balls deep in denial. Tell me more about it. What else do they do?” _

 

This was the unbidden memory that leapt to his mind as Granger's lips slanted under his. 

 

All his senses were lighting up. 

 

Her hair, under his fingers, were softer than he had expected the bushy mess to be. When touched, a fragrance that he had noticed earlier curled around him.

 

Her lips were surprisingly soft and full and small. He had to actively force himself to slow down, because every instinct in his body was telling him to  _ jump on her, eat her up _ .

 

Her shoulders were narrower and slimmer than he had expected, just because she had a larger than life presence to her.

 

Her waist.

 

Oh Merlin. His brain wasn't cataloguing anymore and he was fast on the one-way road to nowhere good.

All he could think was, Theo was right. Granger  _ was _ a better kisser than the Pureblood witches he had snogged before. 

 

But it didn't feel dirty. It felt… Enlightening. Enlivening. Like a celebration that nobody in his family had dared hold when they had all escaped the Dementor’s Kiss. Something to be inhaled and savored.

 

Draco had been at Durmstrang for a very tense year while Death Eaters were all being sentenced left and right. Their trials had been scheduled in order of shortest criminal sentence to longest. Since he and Gregory Goyle were the youngest Death Eaters, their trials had been first. They had gotten off with what amounted to a slap on the wrist.

 

Unlike his sixth year, when he had been afraid for his mother's life under Voldemort, afterwards, he worried about both his parents’ lives under the new Ministry policies. Basically, his life was shite both before and after the war.

 

Draco was a bit apprehensive he didn't know how to live life without a constant cloud over his head. The fact that he was now worrying over  _ that _ was ironic, to say the least.

 

Being with Granger, strangely, eradicated all of that. 

 

He didn't know why that was—maybe it was because she worried more than him, over things so trivial (like toilet paper, for the love of Merlin) that it put his worries in perspective. Maybe it was because she was so optimistic in the face of such negative odds that she somehow, inexplicably, lightened his spirits. 

 

It was hard to worry as much when one was with a good luck charm like her. Or maybe it was this strange situation where he had gone without sleep for nearly thirty-six hours—he wasn't sure the exact duration now, actually. 

 

He also wasn't going to lie—the fact that it was  _ Hermione Granger _ , the one forbidden and thornlike presence in his life—made it all the hotter.

 

All too soon, Granger pulled away—his hands might have been drifting to areas that was regrettably covered with double layers. She was flushed and her lips were swollen when she said, a little out of breath: “You have a girlfriend.”

 

There was a slight question mark at the end of her sentence.

 

He tried to reach for her again. “Don't worry about it.” 

 

The police station was dark, it was quiet, nobody knew where they were, and sod it, this had been boiling between them for over a decade. Why not here? Why not now?

 

It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes were wide, all the passion evaporating, as she leaned as far away from him as his arms allowed. “Wait a minute. I'm not going to be some fling abroad.”

 

“You're not—” Draco began before he bit his tongue. 

 

She moved even further away from him and he let his hands drop to his sides. The heat of the moment quickly cooled. He felt a bit ridiculous now. Had he really been thinking he and Granger could just have a wild shag with no recriminations and no one the wiser? 

 

He would just blame that line of reasoning on the current circumstances—lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of hygiene, lack of wand, etc. 

 

Draco took a deep breath, drawing in clean air deep into his lungs and expelled it, bit by bit. At the same time, he squared his shoulders. By the time he finished exhaling, his shields were back up.

 

“Now what?” If he concentrated, he could get his physical awareness of her back under his control.

 

She stared at him in a way that almost made his walls drop, her mouth opening and closing as though she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. 

 

“Right,” she said, as though to herself. “Right.” This time, her voice was a little louder and harder. She expelled some air through her mouth and then bent over the man, whose eyes were following them all around the room. “What now?”

 

Draco looked everywhere in the room but at her. He focused on bending over the prone figure. “Search him. And I’m getting my shoes back.”

 

She seemed to recover herself as well, drawing herself up and getting a glint in her eyes before kneeling down to poke at the downed man before rifling through his pockets. “My wand and bag as well. They’re not in his pockets.” She rocked back on her heels with a grunt as she narrowed her eyes at the immobile man. 

 

Draco found the bag shrunk down and fitted inside the man's boot and tossed it to Granger, who caught it and fumbled around in it while Draco worked to unlatch his pilfered belt. If he concentrated on how much he wanted his belt back, it wouldn’t feel as though he were undressing another bloke.

 

Granger looked up from her bag and glared at the both of them. “It's empty.” For a moment when she raised her wand, Draco had a moment of utter terror and hysteria that she was going to turn him into a ferret. Then she recited a spell to keep the Egyptian motionless but able to speak. “Where's my wand, you useless excuse for a wizard?” 

 

Draco finished putting his shoes and belt back on and gazed down at the man, who stared limpidly back at the two of them, defiance written on every line of his face. His mouth remained obstinately shut.

 

“Where's my wand?” Granger pointed the wand at the Son of Horus, emphasising every word by biting off the consonant.

 

The man muttered something and spat in the vicinity of Granger's feet.

 

Granger jumped a little before grimacing and turning to Draco. “What did he say?” 

 

Before Draco could respond, the man began to speak, this time in English. “You worthless woman. You should have your hands cut off for touching a wand.” The civility that had been on his face on Mt. Sinai was completely gone, replaced with a snarling expression that would not have gone amiss in Azkaban. Draco was treated to some cozy flashbacks of the Manor in his sixth year.

 

Then, Draco jerked back in alarm as Granger's hand whipped up with the borrowed wand. Luckily, it was pointed at the man lying prone on the floor as she shot what turned out to be a harmless sparkler straight into the man's face. He flinched. So did Draco, who hadn't known what she would do until the last moment. 

 

“Excuse me?” she said. “Say that again.”

 

The man sneered at her.

 

This time, Draco took a few steps back as Granger’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t fight a war back home against blood prejudice in order to face it here. Now, where’s my wand?” She punctuated her question rather effectively with a series of stinging hexes to the man’s leg.

 

The Son of Horus snorted in derision and muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Dirty disgusting foreigners.”

 

“Er,” Draco said. He held up two hands in surrender at the expression on Granger's face at the use of the word “dirty.” “I don’t think it’s blood prejudice…”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t think so!” she screeched. “I’ll have you know—”

 

“Not  _ that _ . I mean that he thinks only men should be able to use wands.” Draco kept a wary eye on the tip of the wand. 

 

“Women should know their place.” The Egyptian’s eyes bore into Granger as he strained against the invisible bonds. The muscles on his neck and arms tensed with the strain of his effort even though he had to have known the magic would hold. “You are an abomination to the world and I shall see you  _ burned _ for this.”

 

To that reckless threat, Hermione merely raised her eyebrows and jutted out her chin. “Oh, you are not going there.”

 

Draco winced as Granger dealt the man the magical equivalent of a slap and a backslap to the face. “Alright,” he said before pulling her back. As someone who had been on the receiving end of Granger’s violence, he felt some fellow feeling for the man. On the other hand, he had been a teenager when that happened as a result of his own miscalculated behavior; this man really should have known better.

 

Granger tried to dance out of his grip. She turned belligerent eyes on him, her hands flailing all about dangerously. “Did you hear what he said? He said—”

 

“I heard,” Draco said. “But we don’t know if anyone else is coming. Just—find out where your wand is.”

 

The Egyptian crowed, revealing more than one gold tooth. “I sold it. To someone more worthy of it. A man whose magic will erase all taint of your filthy hands.”

 

Draco held up his hands in resignation as Granger charged out of his grip—the man didn’t know what was good for him.

 

He waited until Granger had finished with another painful but transient hex before he held up a hand to stop her. “Let me. How soon does an organ reattachment have to be in order to be fully functional?” He had learned a thing or two when he had to go without a wand. He stood over the man and toed the man between his legs with his— _ definitely  _ his—dragonhide shoes.

 

Granger did a double take and then nodded in malicious understanding, lifting her wand at the Egyptian. “Almost instantly.” 

 

Draco thought that if she had been recruited by the Dark Lord, she wouldn't have hesitated at killing the headmaster to protect her parents; the gleam in her eyes was alarming.

 

The man’s eyebrows rose in trepidation.

 

“Talk, or else you lose it, much like your brethren.” This time she aimed a clawing hex towards the Egyptian’s nether regions. It struck him on the upper thighs and the fabric of his uniform trouser gaped at the tears.

 

It worked. The Egyptian shifted uneasily on the floor and mumbled some things that Draco was certain were not complimentary. “Okay, okay, what you want?”

 

Draco crossed his arm over his chest and surveyed the man as several thoughts occurred to him. “You’re not a Son of Horus. Who are you?”

 

“I am, I am!” the Egyptian protested, only to be struck with another clawing hex to his hip. That time, it ripped through the fabric and drew blood. Still, Draco reflected that the man really should be grateful Granger's aim was so poor. “Okay, okay! I am not. I am Set’s disciple.”

 

Granger stopped flinging about hexes. “What?” 

 

“Set should have inherited the Scepter of Power, not that disgusting usurper, who only lusted after his sister.  _ You  _ are being misled by your crazed desire,” the Egyptian threw at Draco, who held up his hands to indicate that this had nothing to do with him.

 

Granger’s lips were pressed in a line as she flicked her wand again. “Focus! Where are my things?”

 

The Egyptian sneered. “Gone.”

 

Both Draco and the man twitched in alarm as Granger flicked the wand, but this time, only a flicker of white floated from the end of her wand and dissipated.

 

“What was that?” Draco frowned in confusion. It looked like a failed incantation, just odd enough coming from this witch who had never been known to fail that he was equal parts curious and alarmed.

 

She didn’t reply and only recast again. From her scowl, Draco could tell it wasn’t working. 

 

Now the Egyptian was curious too as he strained to sit up higher and see what Granger was doing. “What’s happening?” 

 

Granger gave a growl of frustration. Her chest was rising and falling in her agitation and her knuckles showed white on the wand grip as she recast. “This— _ wand— _ isn’t doing what it’s supposed to.” 

 

The Egyptian looked oddly smug. “Daughters of Isis—” 

 

Draco didn’t stay to listen. There was a rumbling sound of an engine, and Draco jerked his head up and moved swiftly towards the door. There was no one in the hallway when he looked, but that didn’t mean they could stay so lucky.

 

Draco returned to the room, making a gesture for Granger to start wrapping things up. “Whatever you plan to do, do it fast.”

 

“But I haven't even found out why he's impersonating a police officer!” Granger looked undecided between wanting to recast whatever she failed to do and hexing the man to the moon.

 

Draco couldn’t help but shake two fists at the ceiling. “It's not that hard to figure out! He's probably a half-blood. The economy in Egypt isn't doing so well, and he's moonlighting in the Muggle world. What's so hard to figure out about that?” 

 

“Hmm. Fine. I suppose that makes sense.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Quickly, Granger. Don't forget you have to get rid of the documents at the front.”

 

“What about the man who dropped us off?” Granger’s eyes were darting everywhere.

 

“He doesn't have to know we were ever here—he didn't stay to see us come in here, remember? C'mon now!”

 

The man on the ground had watched them debate, a contemptuous sneer on his face. Now he shrank back as Granger approached, wand held high. Even though he had been spitting with threats, his eyes now wide with apprehension. “What do you plan to do?”

 

Granger snorted at the sudden about-face. “You better hope this wand works well for this. And this is for robbing unsuspecting female travelers!  _ Abscondam memoriae _ .”

 

Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes again as she removed the man's magical bonds and stepped away to latch onto Draco's wrist. With a jerk behind their navel, they were off again. 

 

Draco coughed as he sat up in the dirt. At least he had his shoes again, he thought, and looked around for Granger.

 

“Well.” Granger looked down at the wand in her hand, rubbing it slightly between her fingers. “At least now we have a wand. Although, it doesn't feel right exactly.”

 

Draco snorted. “You swot. Couldn't you stick with a textbook charm for memory deletion instead of an obscure one?” She had gone for a much more complicated spell than the textbook  _ obliviate _ . Of course she did. She wasn’t Granger if she didn’t opt for the more complicated route.

 

“This one works better.  _ Obliviation  _ is too permanent. This way, the memories are just hidden and we leave room for reversal.”

 

Draco waved a hand in the air to indicate that he didn’t care one way or the other. The important thing was that they had a wand, he had his shoes back, and they were nowhere near wizard robbers. “Where are we?” 

 

“Cairo. I think we should make our way back to Alexandria and see if we can get in contact with Blaise.”

 

Draco couldn’t help a groan at her peppy announcement. Of course she was hopping on adrenaline after the two days they’d had, while he just wanted to curl up into a ball somewhere. He couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, “Not a bad plan, but let's just hole up here for tonight, Granger. I don't know about you, but I'm completely knackered.”

 

She raked her eyes over him and he felt every moment of the survey. His clothes felt excruciatingly mingy and he wanted to throw out his underpants completely. “Okay, let's go find a hotel then. Nothing too fancy, mind,” she said.

 

“A Muggle hotel?” Draco couldn’t help a grimace. He had vague and uncomfortable recollections of how he spent his first day in Egypt and was afraid to examine his memories any closer. “Are we going to pull a  _ run and confund _ ?”

 

“Well, let's see.” Granger smugly pulled out a wallet from her beaded bag and dangled it before his eyes.

 

Draco was startled into a short laugh. “He put his wallet in your bag?” 

 

“No, I confiscated his wallet since he stole from me.”

 

“Nice. Nice defense of self-justification if the prosecution asks.”

 

Granger flipped open the wallet and began to pull things out at random. “Shut up.” 

 

Draco leaned to look over her shoulder. “That's a pittance. Look at that, not a galleon amidst the knuts.”

 

“It's all Muggle money aside from that.” Granger sounded disappointed, rifling through the bills. “And not very much of that either.”

 

“Guess he wasn't lying when he said he needed my shoes.”

 

He saw her expression change as uncertainty and sympathy flickered across her face. 

 

“Maybe I shouldn't have taken his wallet.” Granger began to nibble at her lip. It struck him that this was her nervous tick, and that he had indeed been watching her for much too long to know this.

 

Draco tore his eyes away. “Merlin. You were going to hex him in the balls back there, Granger. Do  _ not _ tell me you're starting to feel sorry for him. Remember, he called you an  _ abomination _ . Don't flake out on me now.”

 

Granger aimed a pointed look at him. “I've been called worse.”

 

He decided to rise above her comment. Besides which, he was so tired, he wasn't sure if he was seeing shadows or two of her. “Let's not get sidetracked here. Let's find a hotel; I honestly could not care less where.”

 

“Fine.” Granger sighed and seemed to still be a little down.

 

Draco wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but at that moment, it almost felt as though some back-patting was called for. He restrained himself though. The last time they touched had not ended in anything worth writing home about. “Remember. He thinks women are not good enough for wands. Let that little idea carry you through the night.”

 

“He's impoverished. Possibly uneducated. He can't be held completely liable for his lack of resources. Those Horus followers were dripping in gold. Where's the equity here?”

 

It wasn't enough that Granger was knee-high in causes back home; was she looking to get involved in local politics too? And wasn’t it just foolish of him that he found it almost endearing that they could argue about  _ that _ when there were so many other things that needed to be done? But obviously, he wasn’t even functioning anymore because he was about to let himself be pulled into just that argument. “Oh, so the rich can't be excused for their folly, but the poor should be?”

 

“Yes.” Granger looked as though ready to launch into another spiel.

 

He held up a hand to stop her. “Seriously, Granger. You can talk all you want. I agree  _ unreservedly _ with everything you say. But can you tell me after we've found somewhere to sleep that's not outdoors?” 

 

When she hesitated, he thought for sure he would pass out from the lecture she was probably still intent on giving. Luckily, though, his luck seemed to be turning for the first time in a decade, starting with the return of his shoes: she clamped her lips shut and nodded.

 

Unfortunately, they were still an hour or so away from Draco being able to pass out on an actual bed.

 

“Try  _ locator deversorium _ ,” Draco suggested. “Slow downward half circle.”

 

Granger looked snippy. “I know how to do a  _ locator _ spell.” 

 

“Then why aren't you?”

 

“Because…” She looked uncomfortable, biting her lip ferociously. He waited. “Never mind! There are literally hundreds of hotels in Cairo. The locator spell isn't very reliable anyway.”

 

Draco heaved a sigh although he knew she was right. Without tracing items, they could be led somewhere even more unsavory.

 

Looking for a Muggle hotel in Cairo without a phone (Granger kept mumbling about how she needed to go back to kick that man in the balls with her actual foot this time) meant that they had to trudge around and ask if the places around had rooms.

 

Even more unfortunate was the fact that they were surrounded by heaps of trash everywhere. They passed by low sandstone-colored buildings with an occasional colorful facade that was only outshone by the flamboyant rubbish piles. For every colorful, jaunty building, there were also, unfortunately, five or so abandoned looking homes, with only holes for windows. Something in the back of his mind wondered why Cairo felt so rural.

 

“I've gotta say, Granger.” Draco stumbled after her. “I had expected better of you in your choice of destinations. So far, this is not impressing me.”

 

She didn't speak for a second. Then she stopped short and Draco ran into her, automatically reaching out to grab ahold of her waist. He got a mouthful of her hair as well.

 

“Oof—what—” he managed before she whirled around and pushed him down some stone steps off the main road, which wasn't even paved. 

 

He would have suspected she was trying to kill him except she kept muttering, “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

 

“What's going on, Granger? I don't want to go down these stairs!”

 

“I just saw Priya!”

 

Draco stopped short. “ _ What? _ Here? In Cairo. Is she following us?”

 

She was worrying her lips again and there was a deep furrow between her brows. “No, her I obliviated—she shouldn't even remember us.”

 

“Are you sure you did it properly?” Draco pushed her head down lower on the stairs as he popped up for a peek. “Maybe you used another  _ abscondam _ spell and it didn't stay hidden. No surprise, really…who uses such archaic spells when there are perfectly fine newer—argh!”

 

The last was caused by Granger digging her elbow hard into his thigh.

 

Draco rubbed at the injury. “You almost castrated me, you crazy witch.” 

 

There was a giant moon out, which aided in his seeing that Priya was indeed walking through the market street with her not-husband.

 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Draco growled as he ducked down to crouch beside Granger.

 

And then both of them felt rather silly. The stairs led down to the riverbank at this particularly high embankment, and Priya and Ali chose that moment to descend down the stairs.

 

“Excuse us,” Priya said as they passed, eyes roving curiously over the pair of them. 

 

Granger cleared her throat and Draco gave a curt nod, trying to avoid eye contact.

 

Then Priya smiled brightly at the two of them and stopped on the stairs.

 

Draco felt his heart thud to a stop. It took everything in him not to start running. Only Granger standing a step lower than him stopped him. That and her fingernails digging into his thighs.

 

“If you're going to the  _ souq _ , just fyi, the prices are higher than Luxor or Cairo. They charge foreigner prices here apparently,” Priya said in a chatty sort of way. 

 

Hearing the completely oblivious tone of her voice relaxed the knot in his stomach. The fingernails on his thighs released him and disappeared. Draco wasn’t even paying attention to Priya. He was just waiting for her to leave. If they didn’t engage her, she would give up and leave, and so he was about one second from doing himself. Draco grabbed Granger by the hand and tried to haul her resisting figure up—

 

“Wait, what?” he heard Granger ask behind him.

 

“You're British?” Priya was saying with a delighted, wide-eyed expression. Draco reluctantly turned around to find Granger frozen on the steps.  He tugged insistently on her hand.  Did she have to speak to everyone who stopped them? Was this her “thing”? Because—

 

“I’m sorry.” Granger gave a small laugh. Draco realized her eyes looked rather wild and panicked and he suddenly felt alarmed even though he had no idea why. “I didn't hear you properly.”

 

Priya squealed. “Omigod, I love British accents! Okay, basically, you have to bargain like crazy here. I found the stuff here to be way more expensive than Luxor or Cairo.”

 

“Right.” Granger’s voice was faint and Draco was sure she was even swaying slightly. All the more reason for them to beat a hasty retreat. “Thank you.”

 

“You're very welcome,” Priya chirped before walking away.

 

“Did you have to stop to talk to her?” Draco hissed as soon as he estimated they were out of earshot. 

 

Then he stopped cold. His eyes widened.

 

“We're not in Cairo?”


End file.
